Iustitiae Iter
by Fly Raven. Fly
Summary: AU. 2047. Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known DA's murder. The only link is that all murders lead to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Full summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've had this running through my head for awhile, and I just had to get it down before my head blew off. Seriously, I feel like I have little people in there running around with fireworks threatening to blow it up unless I put this down. Just sayin'…**

**I have the general plot already, the outline itself is almost finished, and all that's left is to get it all into chapters.**

**I don't know if I'll get any feedback to this at all, but I would appreciate reviews as to whether or not it would be something people would be interested in. Or constructive criticism. (I would appreciate that quite a bit.) **

**_And—_this author's note seems to go on forever, and I apologize—I just wanted to warn you, I do not have a beta reader, and any mistakes you may find are entirely my own. Okay, I'm done.**

**Rating: T (rating will go up as story continues)**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Death was something you never forget. It's always there, in the back of your mind; you know it happens but you try to never acknowledge its existence. But it's there, and it will always happen. When you take a shower, when you're at work, while having sex, or put on your shoes, brushing your teeth, or drink yourself into oblivion. Maybe it's to those thousands of people who you don't even know, and don't really care about. Or, it could affect you personally, a family member or friend, the woman who's always the cashier at the grocery store, or the kid who mows the lawn. And then it's right there in your face, forcing you to accept it. It's still there, twisting inside of you like a snake, trying to make itself known by clawing and biting, ripping at your knotted innards until it's all you can do to bite your tongue until you draw blood to keep your eyes from filling. It's something that happens every day, a common occurrence, and a part of life.

And it was also something you never got used to.

Even though death is one more everyday act in a world where people think of new ways to kill each other, where lives are taken mercilessly and unsparingly, and it's just something else you expect to see on the news. It means nothing to you when there's a report on a little girl who was shredded to pieces with a kitchen knife, a man shot in the head for his spare pocket change, a teenager left bleeding in a hit and run, or even that old man in your apartment complex who died naturally and in his sleep. Sure, for a moment you think something along the lines of, "Oh, how terrible." But it's never dwelled upon just in case the snakes writing in the pit of your stomach decides to make itself known.

Staring down at yet another body before him, Kurt gave a quiet sigh.

Murder was the oldest fashion around, and it never seemed to go out of style.

To an outside observer, they would see a young, flat eyed brunette going about just another scene, another body with indifference. They would assume it was just one more body on a long list, one more death that he was in charge of. They'd see him as slightly cold and slightly hard by the way he would coolly observe the scene and the dead form before him.

But nobody knew the cold rage he felt when he stood for another life taken too soon, or the pity and helplessness when he had to repeat the standard lines to the living of the dead, "I regret to inform you…", "I'm sorry for your loss." Nobody knew of the hard lump in his stomach, and the nonexistent grime on his skin that seemed to take ages to wash away. Not even the officers around him milling about, who knew the aspects of the job and what it entails, nor the CSI officers who knew it as well. They may know the feeling, but they didn't know it affect him. To them, he was cold, calculated, and while slightly frightening, someone to respect, and who knew that he got the job done.

But no, they never knew the rest.

"Body identified as one Santana Lopez, thirty-two, District Attorney with two kids and a wife at home." The officer on the scene reported while Kurt crouched to examine the body sprawled at his feet. "Wit gave her statement, was walking home the same way she always does, when she more or less tripped over the body. Down right hysterical, before during and after she called it in, but says she didn't touch the body. A Rachel Berry, twenty two, goes to NYU and was just coming home from work."

The officer rocked back onto his heels and swallowed nervously when Kurt glanced up at him. And then let out a silent breath when the brunette merely nodded while pulling on gloves.

"CSI's finished?" Kurt questioned.

The uniform nodded, looking a little pale and obviously trying not to set his eyes on the body. "Yes, sir. Scene is also posted after a news crew got word of it."

Kurt nodded again, satisfied if slightly irritated at the mention of the news crew, and instructed the uniform to record the scene, flipping on his recorder while the officer went about every angle. "Victim, Santana Ashlyn Lopez, age approximately thirty-two, TOD eighteen twenty-one. Approximately five-five, one thirty-five. Brown and brown. On scene, Primary Hummel, Detective Kurt, and officer—" he glanced up at the man in question.

"Hudson, Officer Finn."

Kurt relayed the information. "Victim was found nude, face down. Slight bruising found on shoulders, upper back, ankles, and back of forearms, indicating defensive wounds on the latter. Lacerations and abrasions also in various places on victim's back, more towards middle and lower back, back of thighs, and buttocks, with what looks to be grit and dirt in them. Hudson, help me turn her over." He nodded towards the body, and ignoring the fact that the gangly officer was more green that white now, they carefully moved her so she was on her back.

Hudson took a small step back and audibly gulped when they saw the front of the body. Kurt's eyes were flat, and jaw tight as he continued to take note. "Bruising around wrists, finger shaped. Facial features unidentifiable." Since it was broken into pieces, and all. "Head wound, circular, on left temple, rounded, like a puncture wound. Unknown as to how deep wound goes." He lifted her bloody hair and saw a hole the size of a pencil, like he could slide it right on through. "No other head wounds can be found, as of this moment COD is determined as the puncture in her temple." Blood dripping from her mouth caught his eye. He used his gloved fingers to gently pry her mouth open, and with hardened eyes, spoke into the recorder. "Victim appears to have had her tongue cut out. Before she had died, as the amputated part has bled. More bruising along shoulders, upper arms, and knee caps. Carved into victim's torso is the word 'DYKE' all caps, block letters, with looks like a dull object by the jagged edges. Post mortem." Thank god for small blessings. "No signs of molestation or sodomy. Victim's knuckles are bruised, blood and skin not belonging to herself has been found under her finger nails. Got a few swipes in, didn't you, Santana?" he muttered. "Good for you. You okay there, Officer?"

Hudson, pale and sweating slightly, nodded firmly. "Yes, sir. I'm fine."

Kurt stood and let the taller man gather his bearings. "When she's bagged, have her set as priority with Doctor Fabray as ME. Get me the address for next of kin while I talk to the witness, and I'll inform them."

"Yes, sir."

…

Rachel Berry was the weepy type. This was nothing to be ashamed of, considering the girl had just happened across a traumatizing situation, but well. She was _very _weepy. And she wailed.

With grueling patience that he wasn't aware he had, Kurt waited until she finished sobbing and whimpering into a tissue. "How about you start at the beginning for me?"

"O-okay. Okay." She drew in a shuddering breath, sitting straighter and tucking her hair behind her ear. "I was w-walking home, like I do everyday from work. I don't—I don't live very far from here, and school is within walking distance too, so it's just easier. I don't—we don't see the point in getting a car. It's just—you know, just not worth it, really. But usually I'd be home earlier—my roommate and I switch off on cooking and everything because it's only us, and we're both super busy, and we fight a lot but if we switch then we won't fight maybe so much, but I figured I'd try to take an extra shift because she just lost her job and we have to pay the rent. I work—I work over at Deb's, you know, the coffee shop? About two blocks over, in between that new book store and the little market. Anyway. I was walking home, trying to get there quickly because I don't like walking at night, I have this slight fear of—" she hiccoughed slightly in ironic amusement. "Of being jumped or killed. My roommate—Sugar—and I were fighting on my cell because she still hasn't found a job and I was tired of doing all the work. I had just hung up and then I—I saw something laying on the curb ahead." Her eyes started to well up again, and her lip trembled. "I couldn't really see what, it's dark and the street lamp didn't show anything so I got closer and saw—I saw and I screamed because she was _there _and oh, god." She wrapped her arms around herself and bit her lip. "And I—I kinda blacked out, I think. I think I just stood there. Then I called the police, but I didn't touch anything, 'cause on those crime shows you never touch anything and I didn't know if it was true or not, but I—I didn't want to touch her. I didn't want to, and she wasn't breathing, and there was blood everywhere. God, I should've—I should've done something, seen if I could do something."

He shook his head firmly while she choked on another sob. "No, you did very well. You did exactly what you were supposed to. She was dead, and she had been dead. There was nothing else you could have done except what you had. You did as you were supposed to."

She blinked large brown eyes and then squeezed them shut tightly. "Okay. Okay."

…

He finished talking to the college student and told her he may need to get in touch with her again. After he was informed of Lopez's address he sent a still very teary Rachel Berry off with instructions to Hudson to escort her to her apartment.

After they left he stood for a moment, watching while the crime scene unit bagged and tagged everything, then took a deep breath and turned around, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked to his car.

He had to go inform a woman her wife was dead and her children had lost a mother.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Next chapter, whoo hoo. **

**Again, no beta, so any faults are my own, and if you find any, point them out as you please, and I will gladly correct them. (Still searching for a beta. Blah. Anyone willing?)**

**Rating: T (rating will go up as story continues)**

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Kurt sat on the couch in the comfortable and very obviously loved living room, across the pretty weeping blonde. Despite all of the efforts the New York Police Department tried to put on the press, word seemed to have already gotten out just in time for the nine o'clock news that a District Attorney had been murdered and dropped on the sidewalk, and that Homicide Detective Hummel was Primary. By the time he had knocked on the door of the charming house in the family suburbs, an already distraught Brittany Pierce had crumpled as he asked if he could come in, and showed her his badge.

She sat now in a worn chair across the coffee table, staring down into a glass of water, tears rolling down her cheeks as she visibly tried to gather herself together, and answer Kurt's questions. "She was—" her voice broke, and she drew a shaky breath before she started over. "She was coming home early today, for our anniversary. She was going to get off early, she promised, which is about five o'clock, and we were going to go out to dinner after we called the babysitter to come over and watch the kids. It's a Friday, so the sitter was going to stay the night while we went to a hotel. We don't really have time, just to our self anymore. Danny is just starting school, and Lana is still just a baby…" she let out a soft sob, covered her mouth and rocked back and forth, looking confused and overwhelmed. "The babies. Oh, God, the kids… How do I tell them? How…" she shook her head and clenched her eyes shut as Kurt sat quietly, instinct telling him to let her get it all out before he started with more questions.

"She left me sticky notes. She wasn't there when I woke up, so she could get out early and she can come home early. Sticky notes, on her pillow, a picture in the hallway, a vase in the kitchen, sweet notes. She loves me, good morning beautiful, all these years and she's still crazy about me. " Her breath hitched. "God. I was happy all day. Excited. Just me and San tonight. The kids. I made them dinner, around four. San sets something out in the morning, something easy and that I won't forget. I put them down with a movie until San got home, that way they were mostly calm until the babysitter got here. She called me; San did, when she was getting ready to leave. Said she had some last minute paper work, then she'd be home. She said she loved me. Oh, God. She said she loved me, the last thing she said to me." She gasped it out, and after a moment took a drink of water. "Five thirty rolled around, and she wasn't home yet. Then six and I tried to call her. I was kind of upset. The kids were getting cranky and had to go to bed soon, and the sitter still had to be dropped off after I called her to tell her to come over. Six fifteen, six twenty, six thirty… She never answered, and I was starting to get really worried. Santana wouldn't be this late without calling. Fifteen minutes, okay. But not an hour and thirty minutes. And she wouldn't forget our plans, and she's always home to kiss the kids goodnight if we have plans before. Then it was seven o' clock and she still wasn't answering, and I called her partner at the firm, Dave Karofsky. He said she had left at five, like planned, but she wasn't home. She wasn't home still. Eight and the kids were sleeping and I called all of our friends, no one heard from her. Oh, God. No one heard from her, and I was really scared. Then after another hour, Tina, Tina Cohen-Chang, called and told me to turn on the news. They said a lawyer had been murdered, but no details have been released, only that you were in charge. I saw your face on the TV a couple months ago, with that kid in the dumpster? You and that Puckerman, man. Then you show up here, at my house, and tell me my wife is dead. My San. Oh god, oh god."

"Mrs. Pierce." Kurt drew her attention when she started to shake. "I know this is hard, and I'm sorry, but I have to ask some questions. Was she having trouble at work? Any threats, problems with anyone inside or out of the office? She came in close contact with plenty of criminals. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?"

She lifted her watery blue eyes to look at him and tucked a strand of hair behind her hair absent-mindedly. "Hurt her? Yeah, and threats she got on a daily basis. As you've said, she was around dangerous people. People she tried to put in a cage. The ones who slipped through her fingers, which weren't many, or finished their sentencing. Angry family members. But nothing I'm sure you don't get either. Sure, some problems with people, but nothing that wasn't taken care of."

"Troubles at work, problems with anyone she didn't get along with."

She smiled wryly, if fondly. "San is a very headstrong, stubborn woman with a strong position, not to mention married to a woman. There are people she doesn't get along with, of course. Few she sees on a daily basis."

"Such as?" Justin prodded as her eyes filled again, noticing her exchange of past and present tenses but not mentioning it.

"Like I said, not many. Her and Blaine are always at each others' throats. Dave irritates her—irritated." She closed her eyes. "Irritated her. Her boss transferred him from some unknown firm a couple months ago, they never got along. I don't think anybody gets along with him though. Her parents haven't talked to her since she came out years ago."

Kurt nodded, encouraging her. She prattled off a couple coworkers she had had that didn't like her, but were polite enough at work, and had nothing else to do with each other outside of it.

"Blaine?" Kurt asked.

She blinked, her eyes dazed. "What?"

"You mentioned a Blaine whom she didn't get along with."

"Oh. Yes, he's a friend I've known since college. Blaine Anderson. They've never gotten along. She irritated him, and she didn't like how 'snobby' he was, she said. Blaine is my friend, I teach dance at one of his schools. We met in college. So they saw each other often enough, not all the time but when they did they always bickered and sniped at each other."

He followed up with how things were at home, asking if they were having any problems, and received a negative in response to all, that they were happy.

"We were happy." She said again, a sob escaping her lips.

"Mrs. Pierce, is there anyone I can call for you? You shouldn't be alone."

"I—I don't know. I don't know."

"Mrs. Pierce." He repeated until her gaze lifted to his. "Family? Friends?"

"Mike. Tina. Could you call Mike and Tina?"

Kurt pushed an impatient hand through his hair, sitting in his car after making a call into the forensics lab to nudge things along, scowling as something tugged at the back of his mind.

He glanced around the family-friendly neighborhood. Most lights were off, since it was ten o'clock at night. A lot of family's had their windows open to compensate for the cool September breeze, he saw with an incredulous shake of the head. The family community had decent security, but you could never be too careful. He contemplated knocking on doors to get information from neighbors, but decided that people woken up and irritated weren't very willing to talk to cops. It could wait until tomorrow.

He looked at the brick house next to Brittany's, and the houses lining the street, green grass all mowed and looking similar. He half expected all the doors to open simultaneously, men and woman similarly dressed trotting out with wide smiles and large hair, advancing on his vehicle like a mob of perfect, cloned zombies.

And he needed coffee if he was having these thoughts, he decided. He shook his head, and put the car into gear, pulling out, glancing out the window in case the doors lining the street were flung open. He had no clue how Jeff could have lived in a place resembling this at all—

Fuck. Kurt blinked as something slammed into place in his head, and could've fucking slapped himself. Jeff. Gushing over little Danny's birthday party last weekend, that he had planned for his friends. With a dinner at a friends house. Mike's house, with his wife Tina. Mike, Danny's and Alana's Dad. Danny, five years old, with his over excited little sister and stressed out mothers. Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce. Fucking hell.

He pulled out his cell phone, calling his friend who was no-doubt clubbing. Three rings, four, come on Jeff pick up…

His car was suddenly filled with Katy Perry's Teenage Dream Remixed, and he heard his friend shout into the speaker with a slightly distorted, "Hello?"

"Jeff. It's Kurt."

"Baby?" The voice chirped happily. "Hey honey, are you going to come out and play?"

"Not tonight. Listen, can you go somewhere quiet? Is Thad or Nick with you?"

He heard a deep voice close to the cell phone, and Jeff's tinkling and quite tipsy laugh. "Yeah, just a minute, Baby. And Nick is here. What's up?"

Suddenly, the noise was broken off; he could barely hear the muffled music in the background. Then the sound of running water, and Kurt could deduce that he was in the bathroom. "Listen, Jeff. Did you watch the news before you went out tonight?" Useless shot, since the only TV Jeff watched was gay porn or the home shopping network. Or Jerry Springer. And sometimes Oprah, depending on his mood.

And Jeff's laugh confirmed it. "Hummel, you know better. C'mon Detective, what's up?"

Kurt guessed that Jeff had also had a few too many, otherwise he would have known by now that something was wrong. Kurt rarely—if ever—called, and it was highly doubtful he called to just talk about the weather. He drew a deep breath in, wishing he didn't have to do this to one of his only friends. "Listen. A woman was killed earlier this evening. A student walking home from her late night at work found her body on the sidewalk."

"What's this have to do with me?"

"She was a Prosecuting Attorney." Kurt heard Jeff's quick breath on the other end, and he clenched his teeth. "Your friend Santana, Jeff. I'm so sorry."

He heard Jeff let out a sob, and repeat oh god, oh god, oh god over and over again. "Jeff, is Nick in there with you?"

Jeff whimpered, and Kurt took that as a yes when he heard another man's quiet voice, soothing close by. "Can you give him the phone?"

"What's going on, Kurt?" Nick asked worriedly when his partner handed him the phone.

"Santana's body was found tonight." He spoke over Nick's quick curse as he heard Jeff's sobs getting louder. "Take him home. I don't know much right now, but when I do I'll try to let him know. He was a friend of hers; I'm going to have to talk to him."

Nick swore again. "Okay, okay. Fuck. You're primary?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm guessing it wasn't a car accident. Was there a break in at her office? Is Brittany alright? The kids?"

"Everyone else is alright, if you count losing a wife and mother. No, there wasn't a break in. I'm going to have to talk to him, Nick. The sooner we get it over with, the better."

"Okay. Tomorrow? Can we do it tomorrow?"

"Yeah. I'll be by there tomorrow afternoon. Take him home."

He heard him sigh and make shh-ing noises to the hysterical blonde on the other end. "I am. Thanks, Hummel."

"Don't thank me yet. You're going to hate me tomorrow."

Nick laughed without humor. "Yeah, I guess you're right." And hung up.

….

Kurt shook his head in faint disbelief, trying to get it all in order, staring at the board placed in his office.

Santana Lopez's picture sat in the middle. Parents are out of the family, but not out of the equation, and an only child. Married to Brittany Pierce. Daniel and Alana as children, one biological, one Brittany's.

Brittany Pearce; only child and one parent, a mother and not part of their lives. Close friends with Mike and Tina Chang, and Jeff Sterling and Nick Duval.

Mike Chang; fathered both children, married to Tina, no other children. Works, and went to school with Brittany.

He paced in front of the board, eyes narrowed. He sighed when he realized he'd have to put up Jeff and Nick. Of course he should've realized that Jeff knew Brittany, and by default Santana. From the background info on Brittany Pearce, not only did she and Jeff both go to Julliard the same years, their focus had lain in dance.

The few times Jeff had managed to drag Kurt away from his office and his work, he had mentioned Brittany and the kids. Once or twice, Santana, but they didn't get along very well, if he remembered correctly.

And of course Kurt knew Santana Lopez, even before this case. Not personally, but professionally. When you worked in Homicide, the district attorney was needed, and he'd crossed paths with her a few times on more than one case. From what he could remember of her, he realized Brittany had fairly summed her up. Stubborn, hot headed and sharp as a blade from what he recalled. Hard worker, and dedicated to bringing justice about. Slightly bitchy, but that was perfectly fine with Kurt considering she was the damn best at her job.

He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes and sat back in his chair, pulling up her information.

Santana Lopez, district attorney for five years, and youngest DA in ten. Had worked for H&A Attorneys as an intern in college until 2020, where she was offered a position in the District Attorney's office. Married Brittany Pierce right after high school, and attended Columbia University, double majoring in Law and Psychology. He felt his eye brows raise, impressed. First child, Daniel Joseph Lopez-Pearce born June 3, 2021, currently five years old. Second child, Alana Janine Lopez-Pierce born February 18, 2025, nineteen months. He scrolled down, gazing at his computer screen, and blinked in surprise. Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez both born and raised in Lima, Ohio, and attended McKinley High School.

He could feel the knot in his stomach tighten, and pushed ahead, storing the information but not dwelling on it.

No criminal history, but a sealed juvenile record. Medical history, numerous hospital and doctor visits growing up, specifically in high school, posted as cheerleading incidents.

Legally emancipated at seventeen, with acceptance from parents. Vaguely, Kurt wondered if her parents had been informed of her death.

He spun in his chair, facing the window and looking out at the street below. People moving along, taxi's still in full force and horns blazing even at one o'clock in the morning. He stood to move by the window, looking over the city. The city that never sleeps. Whoever called it got it right.

He watched a woman hurry along the sidewalk, digging in her purse and chatting along on her cell phone. His eyes narrowed on a grifter running a three-cup game on said sidewalk. He snorted in amusement, knowing this particular grifter wouldn't move until he was finished with his marks, not caring whether or not he was set up directly in front of a police station. Kurt had already had numerous conversations with this one, and it would always be the same. He'd look up at him with a grin, and shrug in a 'what can you do?' gesture and remark that everyone had to make a living. At least this one was harmless. If you ignored that fact he was cheating naïve tourists with a rigged game, but they kind of deserved it if they fell for it. Or so Kurt thought, anyway.

It was his city. It was his home. However imperfect. And he knew it once was Santana Lopez's city also.

And now Santana Lopez was his, too. His responsibility to find her justice. She was a part of him from the moment he answered the call from dispatch. The dead were his responsibility.

Kurt looked over her picture, a strong and attractive looking woman, who had steel in her brown eyes and a cynicism in the set of her jaw. He tipped his head back, knowing he was going to get to know this woman very well.

**Reviews? They encourage me to write. :]**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Chapter three. A bit shorter, but I'll have chapter four up soon, and it should be longer. Reviews are appreciated and much-loved. **

**And thank you to those who have reviewed, and those who don't but who read it anyway. It's what makes me want to continue writing :]**

**Oh, and the story is a WIP—obviously—it's just categorized as complete. **

**Rating: T (rating will go up as story continues)**

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

"What the hell is this?" Kurt demanded as soon as he entered the room, looking down at a body that was certainly not his.

The blonde in front of him paused a moment from where she was about to pull apart a perfect y-cut; eyebrow rose in his direction. "A body?"

"Hardee ha ha. I could deduce that much. This is not my DB."

It was this sentence that made Quinn Fabray stop to fully give Kurt her attention. She was a young woman, a year or two younger than him maybe, who came off as cool and uninterested in everything that she did. She was a no-nonsense woman; sarcastic, a bit self centered, and bitchy. Kurt liked her quite a bit. She was the best at what she did—and she'd have to be to have the title of youngest and best Medical Examiner in New York.

Her usually impeccable hair was thrown into a messy bun, and she was wearing sweats and sneakers instead of whatever get up that was currently in style at the moment. She pulled off her bloodied gloves and goggles, gazing up at him in amusement.

"Quite right, Detective. This isn't your body. But as I've already finished with yours—after I was dragged out of bed by the too-perky and brand new intern, I might add—I decided I'd start on another. Considering your priority is finished. There are dead bodies aplenty, as you know. They won't tend to themselves."

Kurt scowled slightly, looking away from her smirk and down into the bruised face of a middle aged man. "What's he in for?"

She laughed, a light sound that bounded around the sterile and pale room. "Are they in prison now? I suppose that's another way to look at it. Botched burglary. He's the burglar. Broke in to some house on the lower east side, the house he broke into was supposed to be empty, but the couple had to cancel their plans. They had come out after hearing a noise and startled the burglar—so badly that he tripped down the stairs from the second floor, and the television he was trying to steal landed on his chest, crushing his lungs."

He shook his head. "I should be used to this type of stupidity by now, but then something like this comes along."

Quinn nodded, pulling the sheet over his face and leading him towards Santana. "They say money makes the world go 'round, but I'm debating whether or not that should be changed to common sense. Now," she lowered the sheet covering Santana. "Your report was spot on. The puncture wound was the cause of death, around six-twenty. Pointed, diameter around the size of a pencil. Slid straight on through, slightly at an angle, away from the face and eyes, more towards the back of the head, and into the frontal lobe."

She handed Kurt a pair of gloves and micro goggles. She tilted Santana's head, to give Kurt a better view, and then moved it back. "Excessive bruising on the face is from a blunt instrument—not enough to do fatal damage—"

"But enough to make a point and to cause pain while keeping her conscious." Kurt finished.

Quinn nodded. "Broken nose, two black eyes, and cheek bones both on the verge of shattering, and dislocated jaw. Which brings us to her tongue. Again, you were correct; her tongue was cut out before she was killed—the blood indicating that. Before she was killed but after face and body bruising.

"Bruising on forearms is from a rounded instrument, and seems to be the only defensive wounds, besides the knuckles. But grit was found in the torn skin on her knuckles, so it's unclear as to whether she was punching something or if the skin is torn."

"Crime lab get the skin under her fingernails?"

She nodded. "I sent the grit in the abrasions from her back, knees, and knuckles over also. Knee bruises indicate single force pushed upon them, I'm guessing she fell on her knees. And the lacerations from her back and upper buttocks indicate she was dragged over a surface, as do the finger shaped marks around her wrists. The abrasions are post-mortem."

"And the carvings on her abdomen?"

Quinn's eyes hardened. "Also post-mortem, by a dulled or jagged instrument, I'm leaning more towards dulled as you were in your reports."

She gave him a small smile. "You were right all around from your report. All you needed me for was the technicalities. You after my job, Hummel?"

He snorted, pulling off his gloves and goggles. "I'll leave that to the experts. I'll leave the cutting open dead bodies to you."

She followed his example. "Honestly, you don't even need to come into the morgue. You've got it all correct in your notes. I can confirm everything you've said over electronics."

"Ah, but then I don't get to see your pretty face."

"Hush, you. Any word on when her family is coming to see the body? I'll clean her up as much as I can, but there's only so much I can do."

Kurt nodded. "Her wife's best friend contacted me to see whether it'd be okay to see her tomorrow morning."

"That's fine. I'll think of something to make too-peppy be somewhere else. Honestly, how can someone that happy work in a morgue? It's just not normal."

"And cutting dead people open for a living is?"

She snorted and took a sip from her water bottle. She put the cap on then just stared at Santana's face for a long moment. "I knew her."

Kurt glanced up sharply, but she went on. "Well, I didn't _know _her. In fact, it wasn't even from New York—though we crossed each other on occasion, her receiving files for a case, or I'd be put on the stand to explain any findings that may have to do with one. I went to high school with her, actually." She snorted again. "Her and her wife, Brittany? Went to school together. I'm pretty sure we were on the same cheerleading squad for a while; I dropped out after sophomore year. I didn't see them much after that, but it hit me while I was sewing her skull back in place. Kind of disturbing, but what can you do?

"Anyway. I figured I might as well tell you, better safe than sorry."

Kurt nodded, feeling slightly uneasy. "If I need you to come in to make a statement I'll contact you, for now I'll just put it on record. You're from Ohio, also?"

"Yeah. What are the odds? We lived in Lima, Ohio and we all end up in New York. And I end up performing an autopsy on a former fellow cheerleader. It really is a small world."

"Yeah," Kurt agreed, stomach churning; thinking. "Small world."

…..

The sun was just beginning to rise by the time Kurt had gathered impressions and recorded statements from the victim's neighbors. After a brief and tearful discussion with Brittany Pierce and Mike Chang, he was also granted access to her home electronics and planner. He thanked what ever deity that may or may not exist that he wouldn't have to get a warrant. He was feeling bitchy enough as it was that morning, and that was with three cups of coffee.

At the moment he felt fit enough to toss his murder board out the thin and grimy window in his home office—if you could even call it that. It was too large to be considered a closet but too small to be a bedroom. But it fit his desk and his murder board, and it suited his needs just fine.

He shook his head, frustrated. "Doesn't fit, something just doesn't fit."

The images of the vic's body hung on the board, along with copies of her day planner and her contact list. He had received a report from the forensic sweep of the scene and report from the crime lab—both coming up empty. The only blood on the scene was the vic's, and the only prints were her own. Similarly with the body, the skin under her fingernails were her own, and no other prints were on the body—anywhere. Along with no hair or clothing follicles.

Which meant that the murderer had sealed up.

But why then, did it all seem so careless? So messy?

Kurt cursed, narrowing his tired eyes as he grabbed his cup and gazing at the photos. They were one big contradiction. He was hung up on the scrapes and bruises—they just didn't fit. Neither did the jagged edges on the knife—and something about the drop of the body was niggling at him, but he just couldn't grasp it.

This didn't seem like a crime of passion—it seemed too cool, too calculated, despite the bruises and lacerations. And the carving in the abdomen seemed more like an after thought. But the tongue—the tongue and the puncture wound seemed key.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. The timeline too. Between the time she left work, and her body was discovered. Was she taken somewhere? How long would it have taken to abduct, kill, and carve the word in her abdomen and cut out her tongue? And then the time of the drop off.

It was just too excessive. Too much, almost. It felt too planned, but was set up to look more spur of the moment—maybe trying to use the carving excuse as a hate crime. It just didn't add up. He knew he'd have to retrace her steps, hope to get a feel. Start at her work, take statements from the ADA—Dave Karofsky, Kurt remembered Brittany mentioning.

Then tackle her electronics, which he glared at from where they were laying—mockingly in his opinion—on his desk. He'd save that for after he finished contacting friends and family of the vic's. If there was one thing that hated him and he hated right back, it was everything to do with technology. Maybe he could convince Abram's to have a go at it. He was the only one that he'd ever worked on a professional level with from the electronic division, partly because he seemed to be the sanest out of the entire lot in that sector. He'd have to get it cleared with his obstinate Lieutenant, of course—

He stopped dead in the process of grabbing his coat, stamping down on the urge to groan aloud. His LT. Of freaking course, how the hell could he forget about _that _speed bump? Maybe he'd put _that _off, instead. He'd rather deal with the electronics.

Despite her being his mentor and the one to snatch him up directly out of the academy and training him personally, Kurt didn't know if he could handle her on limited sleep and little coffee. They'd both end up knocking the other out—or she'd just knock him on his ass, which is highly likely considering who his LT was.

He snatched his keys and cell on his way out the door, shaking his head in vague—but fond-amusement. If there was one person who was more difficult and stubborn than him in every way, it was the Lieutenant of Homicide herself; miss Sue Sylvester.

He nodded decisively to himself as he left his small apartment. He'd definitely put off that meeting until he was summoned or until he had more than three hours of sleep. Otherwise, there would unquestionably be bloodshed in the near future—much more than he'd ever seen. And considering he was a homicide detective, that was saying something.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So, if anyone has noticed—which I doubt, maybe—I've upped the rating. It's not because of this chapter, but later chapters, and I know if I don't do it now I'll just forget. So, yes. This story is now rated M.**

**I have the hardest time not posting immediately after I write a chapter—it's driving me nuts! I think I'm going to try to update once a week, but knowing me it'll probably be every few days. **

**Still no beta, so all mistakes are my own.**

**One more thing—just saw Asian F. Glee is back!**

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

The District Attorney's office was a place Kurt had never set foot in before—whenever a warrant was needed it'd be requested by handheld, and granted it'd be sent over to Sylvester. He didn't take much part in the court aspect of the cases—he investigated the case and closed them. Occasionally he'd be called to the stand, but it wasn't often.

He wondered how anyone got anything done in this place. He stepped into the very spacious lobby, glancing around. Warm wood, large windows—ironically, he felt mildly claustrophobic from the open layout.

A woman behind the desk in the middle of the room was currently on her headset and raised a manicured finger in his direction, mouthing 'one minute, please' and returning to her 'comp and call. He leaned an arm on the desk, taking in the few people milling about, some sitting in chairs and fidgeting, and some in suits bustling around even as early in the morning as it was. A man in a wrinkled suit walked up to the secretary's desk and laid an envelope in front of her. Still on the phone, she slid it across and placed it in a basket near her elbow.

"I'm sorry, how may I help you?" She sighed, finished with the call and turning weary, red-rimmed eyes towards him.

He slid his badge across the desk, speaking even as she closed her eyes and nodded. "Detective Hummel, I need to speak with Dave Karofsky."

"Yes, yes. He just got in, he had stopped by Brittany's before—I'm sorry. He should be in now. You're—you're primary?" she cleared her throat, pursing her lips slightly as her eyes watered. "Of Santana's case. Of course you are, I—the news, and Dave… Anyway. Let me just—I'll tell him you're here. He may be on the phone. If I could have you wait here?"

He gave his assent as she hurriedly excused herself, walking down a hall of to the left behind the desk. He was gazing at the numerous certificates lined on the wall when he heard her heels clicking on the wood, returning. He turned towards her, watching as she tucked a fly-away lock of graying hair behind her ear.

"He—you can come back. I've moved all appointments for later—he was looking over cases. He's—Santana's now, too." She shook her head at herself as she led him down the long hallway. "I'm sorry, things are—frazzled. Santana—" she took a deep breath. "Santana ran the ship, here. It'll—it's going to take some time."

He looked down at her from the corner of his eyes, the crease in her eyebrow, the slight purse of her lips, and the lines around her mouth. "You were her secretary?"

She nodded, and then shook her head again. "Yes, but not only hers. I'm the District Attorney's and the Assistant District Attorney's secretary. Considering the jurisdiction is quite large, there's extensive support staff including multiple paralegals. I've been her secretary since she came into this office—quite a shock when someone so young was elected as District Attorney." She cut herself off abruptly. "I'm sorry—again. I'm babbling."

"I'll need to speak to you when I'm finished with Mr. Karofsky. Standard operating procedure is all, where you were between five o'clock and nine thirty yesterday evening, asking if there was anything out of the ordinary lately, or yesterday from when Ms. Lopez arrived and when she left at five."

She glanced up at him with an odd expression, confusing marring her face. "Five? No, she left at four. She was going to leave at five, but she said she had something to take care of before she left for the evening. Here we are, Detective." Before she could specify she stopped in front of a large oak door and after a brisk knock, pushed it open and stepped aside.

Another large, open room—Kurt couldn't understand how they all handled it. Give him his cramped home office or his single and crowded desk surrounded by other detectives.

A large man stood from behind his own desk—in the assistant District Attorney's office still, but pursuing cases from the District Attorney, Kurt noticed.

Dave Karofsky was a slightly intimidating looking man, large and frown lines that usually indicate a perpetual scowl, but which was now smoothed out in exhaustion and grief. Broader and taller than Kurt, he was a decent looking man with a firm handshake.

"Thanks, Rhonda. Close the door, please? Detective, have a seat." He gestured towards one of the chairs in front of the desk. After a moment, Kurt sat when Karofsky sat in the seat next to his instead of the one behind the desk. "Is there any news?"

"The investigation is currently ongoing, and we are pursuing any and all leads." Kurt recited, not giving or taking anything.

As it was Karofsky shook his head with a tired chuckle. "Yeah, 'course. What can I do for you? You'll probably need my statement."

Kurt inclined his head slightly, letting Karofsky gather his bearings while Kurt switched on his recorder. "If you could start at yesterday morning."

Karofsky nodded. "Yeah. Lopez had come in a bit early—she was going to get off early, her and Britt's anniversary was last night. The day went how I always does—she had a hearing early in the morning, then was here the rest of the day, seeing clients and all that. Nothing new, really. She stayed in for lunch, she was actually still making plans for their night, her and Brittany's. They weren't just going to the hotel, she had somehow got reservations at _Elpans. _You know, that restaurant that had just opened over on Madison? Anyway, it was a surprise, and she was excited—well." His lips tilted slightly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "As excited as I've ever seen her." He trailed off, gazing into space.

Kurt waited patiently, and after a moment he snapped out of it. "Sorry. Anyway. I hadn't seen her except when I was leaving for lunch, and she said she had a couple accounts she wanted me to handle when she left at five—"

"Five?" Kurt cut in, thinking of the different times Brittany and Rhonda had both given him. "Not four?"

Karofsky shook his head, looking slightly confused. "No, five. She was going to leave early, at five so she would have a bit of time to change and kiss the kids' goodnight before they left. Well, she said she might actually head out around four forty-five, iron out some details before they left for the night." He clenched his fists slightly as he said the last part, blowing out a breath hard and looking away.

"How long had you known her?"

"Not long, really. I had transferred in over from the east side division. 'Bout eight months ago."

"What was your relationship with Mrs. Lopez?"

Karofsky frowned slightly. "Relationship?"

"It's something I have to ask. Did you two ever see each other personally?" Kurt didn't think so, remembering what photos he had seen in the vic's home, always of her and the pretty blonde, grinning widely and gazing at each other with adoration.

Karofsky snorted, for the first time smiling an honest smile—if small. "No—no way. Not only was she completely crazy about Britt, but we've always kind of irritated each other. Bickered a lot, but never anything serious. Professional rivalry, if you will. We were there for the other if one of us wanted to bicker or snipe." His smile faded. "We knew each other professionally—sure there'd be office parties and everything, but that's where it stopped.

"And she really was head over heels for Brittany, which isn't surprising really. Britt's someone you can't help but like instantly. I'd use to tease her that they really were sickening—they weren't. It was actually really sweet. Santana would randomly order flowers for her, or Britt would come by when they both took lunch, and they'd eat in her office. Santana had pictures of her family all over her office, but especially Britt."

"You sound as if you knew Mrs. Pierce better."

He shook his head again. "I know where you're going with this, and no to that. She was my colleagues' wife, and that was it. You just can't help but like her—she's like a big blonde puppy, and sweet as can be. Always a kind word whenever she comes in, always taking time, going out of her way to see how you'd been." He ran a hand over the lower half of his face. "When they say opposites attract, those two come to mind. And anyway, I'm not interested in women, Detective. Even if either had given the go ahead—which they never would—I wouldn't go for it, and not only because they're both married."

Kurt nodded slightly. "Where were you yesterday between four and nine thirty p.m. yesterday evening?"

"I was here until seven. A case just came onto my desk. Rhonda was here until about ten minutes before I left. I went home and showered and changed—I got into the lobby of my apartment around seven forty. I had a date at eight, and we were meeting for dinner. You can check, his name's Jeremiah Murphy, we've been seeing each other for about a month." He rattled off his contact information which Kurt entered into his PPC.

"We were out until nine thirty, somewhere around there, and we returned to my place."

"Do you know anyone who would've wanted to cause her harm?"

He snorted once again. "Detective, in both of our lines of work we have plenty of people who wish us harm. And as for cases, I'd be happy to turn over the files to you as soon as you have a warrant." He said apologetically.

Kurt nodded, figuring that that'd be the case. Confidentiality, and all that. "Has she seemed different at all lately? Nervous, antsy, uncomfortable?"

"No, and even if she was she wouldn't have shown it. Santana doesn't believe in weakness and she'd hide everything behind that stunning poker face of hers. If she was though, Rhonda would've noticed and said something. But no, she just seemed happy, excited. Content."

"Do you know where she was supposed to be heading yesterday evening? Before she had gone home."

"Hm?" Karofsky looked up absentmindedly from where he was gazing blankly at the carpet. "Oh. Yeah. She knows the owner of the restaurant they were going to. She was heading over to see him—which was easy considering her wife had been friends with him since college or something. Oh, hey. I guess you'd need to see her office, right? Sorry, my mind's all over the place."

He stood, and Kurt followed his lead, tucking his hands into his pocket as he led him out into the hallway and past Rhonda's desk. They paused outside of another door, with Santana's name and credentials on a gold plate on the door. "She was going to see him? You're sure of that?"

Karofsky nodded, reaching into his pocket for the key to the door. "Yeah, said she'd have to go see 'the hobbit' to make sure he hadn't slid the reservations out from under her just to bug her."

Kurt watched as he found the key, and felt a tickling at the base of his spine as he asked, "Did she say his name?"

Karofsky nodded, glancing at him askance. "Well, yeah. But everyone knows him anyway, and that he owns _Elpans_. I mean, who hasn't heard of Blaine Anderson?"

*.*.*

Santana Lopez's office was everything he'd expect it to be, even from his limited knowledge of her. It was a smaller space than the ADA's office, oddly enough, though with large windows. It had bookcases lining one wall, and a large desk placed in the center of the room, with two leather bound chairs placed in front of it. Picture frames and a thin desk top lined were placed on the desk, pictures of her and her wife and her and family and friends. Her certificates and credentials lined the wall, and everything was in its place. After a moment's inspection, everything was locked and coded, exactly as Kurt had assumed they'd be.

Unable to obtain anything further until he had a warrant, he had left Karofsky to his business, and went to interview the secretary. Rhonda had reiterated once again that Santana had indeed left at four o'clock, forty-five minutes earlier than Rhonda expected her to leave. Rhonda herself was in the office until about six fifty, and was home by seven ten and spent the evening in with her husband. Thanking the both of them for their cooperation, Kurt had left, knowing he'd need to update his LT after receiving a message from her on his communicator.

But before he left, Kurt sat in his vehicle, scrolling through his PPC, going through whatever information he could get his hands on at the moment regarding this 'Blaine Anderson', who, as it stood, seemed to be the last person to ever see Santana Lopez alive.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Fifth chapter and we've reached the ten thousand word mark! (Which, sadly enough is actually a big deal for me.) **

**Thank you for your reviews, I adore each and every one, and every time I see I've received one I grin like an idiot. It's true. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Blaine Anderson; age thirty two, born in—

Kurt cursed as his PPC finally finished loading all information pertaining to Blaine Anderson, just as he was pulling into his parking space in One Police Plaza—or, Cop Central as it was (not so affectionately) called.

He glared at the offending electronic as he opened his door. "Stop. Copy information to home and work office units."

Information copied and sent to home and work units. Delete information from Portable Personal Computer?

He resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the polite, robotic voice. He eyed it suspiciously instead, wondering why it was being so cooperative at the moment. He denied the action; afraid if he said yes then it might delete everything on there instead of the selected information.

Shoving it in the pocket of his coat—first few days of fall weather seemed to come from no where, and it came with a vengeance just as he lost his gloves. Again.—he hurried towards the—thankfully empty—lift to take him to Homicide Division. Personable was something Kurt wasn't at the best of times, and this morning, running on three hours of sleep, he felt like he was far from his best.

Now he got to deal with Sue Sylvester. And, judging from the curt message she had left on his mobile unit ten minutes ago—"My office. Now."—she wasn't at her best this morning either. She wasn't usually, but any brusqueness on her part was probably his fault. Kind of. Mostly.

Stepping out of the lift into the bull pen—where some of New York's finest were getting on their night shift, and not paying any attention to him, thank god—he rolled his shoulders, irritated at himself because he wanted to slouch defensively into her office. Turning on his computer and removing his jacket he glowered at the always-closed office door just off the room that every lieutenant had.

He glanced at the clock, and taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, walked to the door and knocked briskly. A sharp and impatient 'enter' barked out at him.

Sue Sylvester was an abrupt, feed-me-no-bullshit kind of woman who inspired both fear and awe in measures that balanced precariously. She had been head of the homicide division for fifteen years, and ran it efficiently. She had the loyalty and grudging respect of all her men, when she ran the streets and even now when she rode the desk. If there was a cop through and through, it was Sylvester.

She was also quite short on patience.

"About time you managed to drag your ass into my office, Detective. Did I interrupt a pedicure? Maybe a facial." She stated mildly without turning around from the window she was facing, hands folded behind her back. "Close the door, Hummel."

The fact that she knew it was him came as no surprise. There was a running pool going that she had cameras everywhere in her division. It certainly wouldn't astonish him. He shut the door quietly, and because her back was turned, gave in and rolled his eyes slightly at her dramatics. He knew most would literally be shaking if they were in Sylvester's capacity, much less in her office with the door closed.

But then again, most weren't her protégé and partner.

It was uncertain if the day that Sue Sylvester chose him—an officer fresh out of the academy—as her aide was a curse or a blessing. Twelve years later and he was still trying to decide.

Being at her side for twelve years, he knew when Sylvester was truly shooting to inspire fear. At the moment, she was just irritated. Otherwise, she would've definitely mad her ire known, in the most publicly and mortifying way possible, springing it on you before you'd even know what was happening. Such was the way his Lieutenant worked. It was something you just had to accept.

He stood now in her office, spine as straight as hers and face blank, waiting for her to decide whether to rip him a new one or not.

Finally—for dramatic effect he knew, and if he could get away with it he'd rolled his eyes again—she turned slowly, and with her chin tilted stared him in the eyes.

"Please explain, why I had to wake up this morning with numerous vultures looking for an exclusive blow up my phone, and turned on the screen to discover that our District Attorney and that my Detective Sergeant, who is also the primary, had not informed me of this new event? Then, I walk in and a report has yet to be filed."

Just as cool, Kurt detailed, "I'll admit that I am at fault, Lieutenant. I received a call from dispatch yesterday evening at twenty-one hundred hours. When I arrived at the scene I was informed of DA Santana Lopez's death by the first officer on scene, and after recording the scene took the statement from the wit, Rachel Berry. Afterwards I had informed her wife and interviewed her. I then visited the morgue and ME Fabray. I returned to my home office—where I should have written and filed my report, I agree—to run basic backgrounds on close family and friends. After—this morning at six hundred hours—I went to the District Attorney's office and spoke with and interviewed the secretary and Assistant District Attorney, Rhonda Baker and David Karofsky, respectively. After leaving the premises I received your message and headed for central."

Sylvester continued to gaze at him for a moment, and then sat in her large chair behind her equally large desk. She sighed and sat back, waving a hand. "Oh, sit down Porcelain and remove the stick from your ass—though knowing you, you probably like it. We both know you should've informed be, and we both damn well know that you were putting it off as long as possible, just as we both know I'm trying to do the same with the commander." She looked away for a moment as he took a seat, thinking. "Santana Lopez. God damn. We also know that the press is going to eat this alive."

He wanted to let his lip curl in distaste at the mention of the media, but restrained himself. "Yes, ma'am."

"They're going to be breathing down your neck, and so is the brass. You need to close this as soon as possible."

He felt his eyes harden. "With respect, Lieutenant, I will capture Santana Lopez's killer as swiftly as I would any others without compromising the case."

She nodded in approval. "Well answered, Porcelain. Expect having to say a variation of the same thing when dealing with the vultures on the crime beat."

"I can handle reporters, Sylvester."

"Without being reprimanded for excessive force?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I have so far, haven't I?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, get your panties out of a bunch. I'm just stating a fact. Everyone will be riding your ass—and not in the good way that you're used to—and you'll have to watch your step here. Get it done. I have the commander's approval to drag some men up from Tech and Electronics."

"That's what I was wishing to speak to you about. I'd like to use Detective Abrams."

"Done. I'll speak with his Lieutenant. Use Puckerman too. Don't give me that look, he's an ass but he's good at his job."

"Yes, ma'am." He gritted out, thinking of the pain in the ass that'd be constant until he finished this.

Again, she gazed at him for a minute. "We both know I'm getting my captain's bars soon. This could go a long way to you getting your Lieutenant's badge."

Sue Sylvester could get his hackles raised like no other, though he'd never show it outwardly. She knew anyway. "I'm not looking to use Santana Lopez's death as a means to become Lieutenant. I'm looking to detain her killer and find justice for her and her family. Becoming Lieutenant is not a main concern of mine."

"It should be. I'm not saying to make it all about yourself, I'm just saying to think about where you step." She continued to gaze at him. "How much sleep have you gotten in the past thirty?"

Interrupted by nightmares or not? "I'm fine, Lieutenant."

"I'll take your word for it. Go write up your report. I want it in my desk in thirty. Use whatever means at your disposal. I'll have Abrams contact you."

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, he stood and started for the door but was stopped when his hand closed around the handle. "Hummel."

He turned his head to acknowledge her. She was looking at him with what others who didn't know her would mistake for concern.

"I postponed your testing for another forty-eight hours. I'll go longer if need be, but I'd rather not. That's the reason you're on this case. If you need to step back, tell me now."

The option of taking a step back fled as soon as he got the call from dispatch. His stomach tightened at the mention of testing, and the reason behind it, but he simply tilted his head and turned back towards the door. "Thank you Lieutenant, but she's one of mine now. I'll inform you if I need more time in regards to testing."

Without another word he left her sitting behind her desk and her eyes drilling into the door he had just closed.

"Hey, Hummel. You caught Lopez?" Kurt glanced up to see Noah Puckerman lean his hip on the corner of his desk. He raised a finger in his direction and read out the last lines in his report, then ordered the computer to file and send to Sylvester's comp.

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head back to look him full in the face. For once, it wasn't smirking or popping off an innuendo. "Yeah. And now so have you. LT informed me to grab you as aide on the case."

Puck nodded, and glanced at his screen. "Not a problem with me. Or anyone else you want to tag. You know that there's not a cop in here that won't go to the wall for Lopez."

Kurt did know this, and well, so all he did was nod. "I'll send my report to your link. I need you to also touch base with Detective Abrams over at TEDD, I just got off the pocket link with him, and he's running backgrounds on all friends, family, acquaintances, and cases. I'll need you to interview, see if you can find any other wit's besides Rachel Berry over on third last night. You want to tag someone to split it, go ahead, but inform me if you do."

When Puck only nodded without complaining about being reduced to a drone, Kurt raised an eyebrow, feeling concern and mild interest. "What's with you? Usually you'd have driven me up the wall with all your come-on's and reduced me to threats."

The broader man shoved his hands in the front pockets of his slacks and rocked back and forth on his heels. "My niece goes to Pierce's children dance classes. I'd pick her up a couple times, ran into Brittany and Lopez on occasion." He shook his head, jaw clenched. "It pisses you off enough when it's someone who works on the same side as you, for the same thing. Like if a cop went down. But when you actually know? It fucking blows sideways. So, you got me Hummel. No cracks. You need me, I'm here."

Because Kurt understood completely, he nodded. Kurt was about to let him turn and return to his work, when he remembered something. "Oh, I'll also need you to have Abrams run a full on this Blaine Anderson guy. Name keeps coming up. I'll have to interview him at some point. What?" he asked when Puck turned and raised a disbelieving eye at him.

"Do you really not read the paper or watch any screen?" Kurt frowned and Puck shook his head with a laugh. "The guy is fucking everywhere. Especially since his old man died about eight months ago. He's CEO of Anderson Industries. They run like fucking everything. Of course his name'll keep popping up. There's almost nothing the guy doesn't own or share in."

"Well, he's also a close friend of Pierce's and is said to not get along with the victim. I'll need to talk to him. Then I'll see if I can clear him from the list."

Puck snorted. "Good luck getting in with him. The place he runs his empire is a fucking fortress. I'll tell Artie to get you all that info. Hope you have an extra decade to sift through it."

Kurt narrowed his eyes in vague irritation. "Christ. Then just have Abrams do a search on any links with Pierce or Lopez for now. Better?"

Puck pushed himself off Kurt's desk, grinning and holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll tell the genius, Princess. But it'll still be quite a list."

"Then I guess you'll have to go through it then, won't you?" Kurt felt a sharp satisfaction when Puck's grin slid off his face in an instant.

Kurt was still smirking when he heard Puck mutter 'bitch' as he walked past him towards his own cube.

….

Needless to say, Kurt wasn't exactly thrilled with his preliminary report. All it had were the minimum of basics. Victim, TOD, location of scene, first on scene and back ground information. Information on next of kin, and basic background on wife, and colleagues. He sighed, still scowling at the screen even as he printed off the hard copy to give to Puckerman and sent off the report to Sylvester.

Hearing his communicator, he picked it up. "Hummel."

On screen, Artie Abrams face saluted back. "Yo, D-Sergeant. Your boy's running 'backs too?"

"Yeah. Is it enough to split down?"

Abrams laughed. "Your vic has about six hundred contacts to sort through right now, between family, friends, cases she's worked, people she's put away, and people who have slipped through her fingers. Yeah, it's narrowed it a bit. If you want it done quicker, you can tag someone, but I think we're a-okay at the mo. Ah, your man's also put in request for Blaine Anderson's linking info?"

Kurt nodded, narrowing his eyes when he saw Abrams rub the back of his neck. "That a problem?'

"No, I can get it done of course. But there's a bit to go through."

As tempted as Kurt was to pass over it, no stone could go unturned and no angle couldn't not be worked. So instead of deciding that he didn't need it, he sighed instead. "Yeah, send it over. What's with this guy anyway?"

Abrams raised an eyebrow at him over his large glasses. "You don't watch much screen do you, D-Sergeant?"

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" He griped with and switched off his communicator after Abrams let out a snicker. He scowled at it for a moment and shoved it in his pocket. He took the hard copy of his report and walked over to Puck's cube.

"Here." He slapped it on his desk. Puck glanced at him. He must've seen something interesting in his expression because he quickly looked away with a small smile.

"I'll read it over. Abrams just sent me the list of wits. I was about to head over to the scene and do interviews. Want me to follow up with the vic's wife?"

"No, I was going to do that. But," he added with a small smirk. "You could hound Beiste for me. I haven't heard from her yet, and I'm waiting for my tox screening update."

It was particularly satisfying to see Puckerman blanch so quickly. "Me? Ah, damn, Hummel."

"Afraid, Puckerman?"

"Hell yes. Have you met the woman? She's frightening."

"I know. Which is why I'm tagging you to contact her. I'm pulling rank. Tag, Puckerman," he poked him in the shoulder. "You're it."

He swore and stood up, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. Kurt stepped back, still smirking and waited for him to gather his things. Puckerman turned his scowl onto Kurt. "With all due respect, Detective Sergeant, rot in hell."

"And you told me that you loved me."

Puck barked out a grudging laugh, though his eyes were still wary. "You so owe me for this. I'll call her. I can't confirm that she'll give me anything, but I'll try. If it doesn't work, all bets are off and you're up to the plate."

"Fine. Pansy."

"Says the coward pushing it off on a subordinate." Puck said and ushered him into the lift, already full of cops from other levels.

"Damn straight. Once you're finished with any wit's, meet me back here at fourteen hundred hours. I'm going to follow up with the wife, then interview a couple of her close friends. I should be back here by then."

They stepped off the lift into the garage. "Got it, DS. Ever get in contact with Anderson?" Puck asked with a grin.

Kurt shot him a dry look. "I haven't tried yet. I don't think it'll be a problem."

"Uh huh. Right."

"Aren't you supposed to respect your betters?"

"Oh, is that what you are?"

"Goodbye, Puckerman." Kurt rolled his eyes.

"What, no goodbye kiss?"

"Sure, come on over here, honey."

"Oh, no way." Puck laughed, backing up. "You'll hit me."

Kurt shook his head. "I was pretty sure you were after women."

Puck sighed dramatically and clutched his chest. "Nobody compares to you, Sergeant Sugar. And anyway, who am I to deny anyone this amazing bod?" He gestured to himself.

"Again; goodbye Puckerman. Good luck with Beiste." Kurt couldn't contain a snort when he turned his back and heard what he would insist was a whimper.

….

After meeting with Brittany Pierce again, she was, by all definition a woman who was grieving.

But even killers mourned their dead.

His gut told him that she wasn't responsible. He was trained to trust his instincts, and everything was telling him that this woman—who was weeping silently, stoically, as she asked if there was any news—didn't kill her wife.

He didn't rely heavily on his gut, but after running probabilities and doing a thorough check, he moved her down the list.

He was currently driving towards Jeff and Nick's apartment on third. After calling ahead to clear it with Nick, who was tired-eyed and obviously torn by the sobs that could be heard in the background.

"I'll see you when you get here." He had said. "But, God, Hummel. There's nothing worse."

Kurt couldn't help but agree.

His palm link pinged, and he answered it just as he was turning into the parking garage. "Hummel."

Puck's disgruntled face showed on screen. "Got your tox, and not without having my liver ripped out. I expect a new one."

"Take it up with the LT, I'm sure she'll add it to my tab. What've we got?"

"Around sixteen thirty, traces of Buzzer were found. Not much, just enough to make her a bit spaced out, listless and not all with it."

Kurt tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "Which is why there weren't as many defensive wounds. Any thing else?"

"Tranq, mild and enough to put her under for a while. I also took the liberty of calling the ME, hurrying up screening over there also, since I'm you're temporary secretary, and all. Buzzer was traced with a glass of 1945 Château d'Yquem—From what I've heard it's pretty snazzy, goes for about fourteen-fifty a bottle."

"Christ. On a bottle of wine?"

"Tell me. But the tranq wasn't injected—ME can confirm—until sixteen fifty."

Kurt paused the tapping to glance at Puckerman's face on screen. "Twenty minutes _after _the Buzzer lacer?"

He nodded. "Yeah. You get in to see Anderson yet?"

"No," he snarled slightly. "His fucking receptionist is a ditz, and I can't get in touch with his admin."

Puck was obviously restraining a smile. "So what are you going to do?"

"Find his building, and walk in. Blondie bubble head can just try and stop me." He added with a gleam in his eye that he wasn't aware of.

Puck was, though, and felt mildly sympathetic for anyone who managed to get in his Sergeants way. As it was, he solemnly nodded. "Now, I need to go and regrow my stomach lining. I think Beiste intimidated it right out of me. And I'm halfway through wit's interviews. I'll send them over to you when I'm finished."

Kurt nodded, still preoccupied with fantasizing of wringing the receptionist's irritating neck. "Do that. See you at central." And signed off as he got out of his vehicle.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Chapter Number Six! I have some people who are a bit irritated that we haven't met Mr. Anderson yet, but we're very close. Very, very close. **

**Here's a bit longer of a chapter for you, as I'm unsure as to whether I'll be able to upload another chapter next Saturday. So hopefully this tides you over until then, if not, my apologies. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. **

**I love reviews. Just, by the way. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Even with the definition on the palm links, there are just some things that you can't see over any technology. Standing in front of Nick, he could see the tight lines next to his eyes and mouth, the pain in his eyes, and the way his breath hitched ever so slightly every time he heard Jeff let out another sob.

"Hey." He said, opening the door wider, letting Kurt step inside their apartment. He ran a hand over his dark hair, looking out of place, uncertain, and rumpled in his black t-shirt and jeans. "Jeff—he's in the living room."

Kurt nodded and stepped inside, feeling at home immediately, the only place other than his apartment and work that he had that feeling. He placed a hand on Nick's arm for a moment, and removed his recorder from his pocket to hook on to his jacket. Kurt glanced around the area, the doorway to the left leading to the kitchen and the hallway where Nick was leading him, closer to the soft weeping.

Kurt felt his heart clench when he walked into the living room and saw his normally hyperactive and bubbly best friend curled into the arm of their long blue couch, gazing into space. He stayed where he was as Nick hurried over to Jeff's side, twining an arm around the blonde's waist and pulling him into his chest, murmuring in his ear.

Jeff glanced up at Kurt after a minute and his eyes filled again, with tears and grief. He sat up and rubbed his eyes no different than a small child would, and Kurt felt himself ache for the two people he cared about on the couch. This was another reason why he worked homicide. Not just to find justice for the dead, to stand for them, but to stand for the living and to ease as much of their pain as he could.

"Anything?" Jeff's voice was wretched, as he gazed up at him without much expectation. Kurt shook his head silently and Jeff let out a small breath, looking to the side.

Kurt moved to the chair across from them, sat and laid a hand on Jeff's knee as his friend continued to take deep breaths. He nodded once, almost imperceptible and looked Kurt straight in the eye. "You'll find them. Whoever did this—I know you will. You won't stop."

"No, I won't." he squeezed his knee tighter as he saw Nick do the same to Jeff's waist.

"Okay." Jeff nodded. He took a deep shuddering breath. "What do you need us to do?"

"You were close to Santana, you and Nick. I need to interview you two. Anything you say could help; anything. So don't leave anything out, okay? And I may need to come back to follow up. But for now, we'll stick to the basics."

When Jeff nodded he took a deep breath and laid his hand on Jeff's for a moment, squeezing tightly and desperate to offer any comfort he can. Jeff gave a slight squeeze in return and Kurt let go. "You both knew Santana Lopez."

"Jeff nodded, reaching back to clasp Nick's hand in both of his own. "Yes. Through Brittany. Nick and I went to school with her; Nick was in the Arts department so we ran into her often enough. Santana we didn't know as much then, she mostly kept to herself and Britt's, more focused on her studies, and for a while afterwards passing her Bar exam. We never really got close to her, at least not until their wedding."

His voice broke and he looked down at his lap, blinking hard. Nick took up where he had left off. "Even then Santana wasn't very personable. She was abrasive, and getting close to her wasn't something anyone would want to work for usually. But we loved Brittany, and she was so excited to have more friends. It's impossible not to give her what she wants. So we'd go over every once in a while for dinner, us four, or us and Mike and Tina. We loved Britt and Santana grew on us. She was—she was sarcastic, and sometimes cruel, and brutal in her honesty, but she was loyal to a fault towards her friends and worshipped the ground Brittany walked on. It was hard not to like someone who so obviously loved Brittany so much. She grew on us."

Jeff nodded again. "Obviously we weren't as close to her as Britt, we were more of her friends than Santana's, but she was a friend. We go to their kids birthdays and throw surprise birthday's for them. We were there when Santana passed her bar, when Britt became a teacher and became one of the best dance teachers in the city. We were there when Santana was elected as District Attorney and for their kids' births. It's—it's hard to believe that she's gone. That we won't go over for dinner and have her there, making snarky remarks and making fun of my hair or cuddling Brittany constantly. She—she had people who didn't like her, of course. Personally and professionally, but—it's just—" he cut off on a hitching breath.

Kurt wanted to get up, to lean over and hug him or to tell him he'd make it as better as he could—but he couldn't. They were on the record and it was best if they got this out of the way—to clear them before anything else. "You said personally there were people who didn't like her. Enough to do her harm?"

Nick shook his head before Jeff could. "No, I don't think so. It was just her personality—she got on peoples' nerves. But nobody actually disliked her enough, hated her enough personally to want to—to kill her."

Obviously someone did, Kurt thought. Personally enough to know she was leaving early that day for her anniversary and enough to want her dead. But he didn't say it aloud, and he wouldn't in front of Jeff. And when Nick met his eyes steadily, he knew the brunette understood that.

"What do you know about their other close friends?"

"They've known Mike and Tina since high school," Nick said, leaning back and pulling Jeff into his side. "They all came here together. They all went to college together. Mike and Britt work together and they're their kids' god parents. I'm pretty sure Mike and Brittany have been in dance class together since they were little. They would never hurt either of them. Ever."

Kurt had already gathered the same thing when meeting them earlier in the day. Tina Cohen-Chang seemed to barely be hanging on, kept together for Brittany and her god children. A strong woman with a sincere heart and a spotless record.

Mike Chang was the same. To Kurt he was a steady, large hearted if quiet man, who wasn't afraid to show what he felt if the tears that he let flow down his face were any indication when giving his interview. He said they girls' were like his sisters, and stated evenly that when Kurt found the person responsible that he put them away for a long, long time.

"And their relationships with their parents?"

Nick grimaced slightly and Jeff frowned at the carpet. "Santana had legally emancipated herself at sixteen—which you probably already know," Kurt tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Her mother and father are the poster couple for Supremacist Catholicism. Her parent's had only ever wanted one child—Santana's older brother. Then Santana was born and her brother had died—car accident along with her mother's sister and her mother's father," Nick explained. "After that, they just didn't care, really. They tried to mold Santana into the perfect child and daughter she should be, and ended up hating that fact that she existed. She hated them and the way they treated her and other people, how they thought they were better than everyone else.

"Santana—" he hesitated slightly, then continued steadily. "She wasn't the most—wholesome girl, you could say. Anything she could do to throw in their faces she would. She slept with whoever she wanted, she drank, cheated, stole and lied, and did everything she could to embarrass them."

"But it only made them try to leash her tighter." Jeff said quietly. "From what Santana and Britt has told us through the years—which we've managed to piece together—they got even worse. They took her out of school and tried to home school her, putting her on house arrest for months. If Santana hadn't had Brittany, I don't know what she would've done."

"She put up with it, though. I don't know why, but she did," Nick continued. "Until her parents found out she was dating Brittany—after she stopped sleeping around. Her—her parents didn't take that too well." He clenched his free hand into a loose fist as he thought of it, and Kurt even saw Jeff's eyes darken. "Something happened, I don't know exactly, but they did something to Brittany, and Santana left. She never went back home. Moved in with Britt and her family and then emancipated herself and hasn't seen them since, I don't think."

Kurt filed away a note telling himself to find out what had happened later. "And Brittany's parents?"

Jeff smiled softly. "They're pretty amazing. Raising Brittany—they'd've had to have a lot of patience and love, and they had both in heaps. They adored Brittany, and they loved Santana. I think they would've adopted her when she moved in if they didn't want her and Britt's to get married so badly. They'll be devastated," he said softly absentmindedly, playing with a piece of string on the throw over the back of they couch.

Kurt raised an eyebrow at the glazed expression in his best friends' eyes and looked questioningly at Nick. He was staring down at the blonde in worried affection, and mouthed 'tranq' at Kurt. Kurt nodded in understanding, knowing it was probably for the best considering his friend would've worked himself into a panic otherwise.

"Do you know Blaine Anderson?"

Jeff paused; his hand stilling from where it was twisting the thread together to give him a vague look of puzzlement. "Blaine Anderson? Isn't that they guy who bought Santana's old firm?"

Kurt hadn't known of this, but kept his face clear from any expression.

Nick nodded, and absentmindedly brushed a lock of blonde hair form Jeff's forehead. "Yeah. Him and the girls were closer in school, I think. He also owns the school where her and Mike work. We didn't know they were friends until a couple months ago actually. Around the time his father died. We thought it was just a coincidence that he owned the school and the firm, I mean the guy owns everything already, right? But his father died and Britt practically lived over at his place, and Santana was even concerned. We don't know much about him. The only people we're really close to are Sand and Britt and their kids. And, well," he nodded slightly towards Kurt and he nodded back in acknowledgement.

"Mmhm." Jeff mumbled drowsily, his eye lids drooping from the mild dosage of the tranq already. Kurt felt his lips quirk despite himself. Jeff always was a lightweight.

"Have you noticed anything off about her lately?"

Nick shook his head. "The last time we saw her was at the kids' birthday party. She was as happy as Santana could be. She didn't seem worried, and if she was about anything, Brittany would know and then you could tell from her."

"How about recently at all; the last month? Any large cases or upheavals?"

Again, Nick shook his head in a negative. "Britt didn't mention anything."

"Where we you both yesterday evening from four to nine thirty?"

"I was at the studio until five," Nick said. "Maybe a bit later, you can ask my second, he was doing editing and layovers until late. You can check with him. Jeff was in the gallery until after me, you know, the new exhibition and all. Nitpicking everything and trying to get it beyond perfect." He smiled in affection, gazing down at his now sleeping lover. "You can check the security disks; they'll show you anything you need. He was excited when he got home at six, thrilled for the opening. We went out to celebrate with dinner, then went clubbing and—" he faltered slightly. "And then you called. We came home, and have been here since. Again, security will most likely give you the disks."

Kurt nodded, reminding himself to tag Puck to contact the building owner to get the okay. Anything to clear the men sitting before him.

A couple more follow up questions per procedure and he turned off his recorder and gave Nick a helpless look after gazing at Jeff's sleeping face. Nick nodded in understanding, turning his face down to Jeff, his expression pained.

"He's hurting," he said softly. "We weren't very close to her but we still loved her. And now he's hurting, and so is her wife and children." He lifted grieving eyes to meet Kurt's steady ones. "You'll find who did this."

Kurt nodded. "I would even if Jeff didn't know her."

"I know," Nick closed his eyes. "I know. And I know you wouldn't stop until you have either way, but now you definitely won't. You won't stop."

*.*

Kurt was about to call Puckerman to have him contact the owner when he decided he might as well have his shot with security to begin with. He strode to the desk in the lobby and flashed his badge at the woman behind the counter who was currently filing her nails.

She cast an eye at the badge on the counter and rolled his eyes, turning her head so Kurt could see the headset he hadn't noticed she was wearing. "Listen, I have to go. Some dude with a badge is here. Yeah, later." She clicked off and raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. "Can I help you?"

"You can get me the head of security. Page them and tell him some dude with a badge needs to speak with him."

She rolled her eyes again, "Jeez, fine. No need to get snippy."

He raised his own eyebrow at her. "Honey, you haven't seen anything. Page him."

He turned his back on her scowling face, waiting until she finished with her call.

"Ahem," he turned back around to where the receptionist was standing and frowning heavily. "He'll see you in the lounge. That okay with you?" She asked sarcastically.

He simply grinned cheerily in response, with a chirped, "Great. Lead the way."

With pursed lips she turned towards a door behind the desk, walking through it. Kurt followed and was immediately led into a small room with an insta-chef, a table with two chairs and a large couch. He went to stand beside the couch gazing around. He felt the girl still behind him, so he turned to her. "Am I being babysat?"

With an irritated huff she left the room, tossing one last dirty look over her shoulder. While he waited, he pulled his palm unit from his pocket and pulled up the info on the security head of 113 and 5th.

Trent Davies, 53, security head for sixteen years. Married twice, currently with spouse for fifteen years, one child with second wife. Kurt raised his eyebrows when he noticed who the owner of the building was, and who Davies worked for.

"Anderson Enterprises," Kurt murmured. "You certainly are everywhere, aren't you?"

He slid his unit back in his pocket when he heard footsteps and Trent Davies walked in.

He was a tall and broad man with a weathered face and thinning hair—without trying to disguise it. His eyes were hard and his voice was gruff when he spoke.

"My apologies, Detective. Didn't mean to keep you waiting. Jenny in there is the fill in for our regular," he rolled his eyes in a decent imitation of the girl at the desk. "Took a while getting the message. What can I do for you?"

Kurt shook the large hand Davies held out. "I'll need the security discs from yesterday regarding a case I'm working. If it's not an issue?" Kurt questioned with his brow raised.

Davies shook his head, hands shoved in his front pockets. "Nah, shouldn't be. Boss says to cooperate with law enforcement any way possible. I can get those for you, no problem."

"I'd appreciate it."

Ten minutes later Kurt had the discs and was about to head out. "You work directly for Anderson Enterprises?"

Davies shook his head, "Not directly, no. Anderson owns the building—no shock—but I'm run through security of Anderson Enterprises. My boss is the head of security in the midtown office's and he works for Anderson."

Kurt nodded, shaking his hand one last time. "I appreciate the help. If I have questions I'll call you."

"Always willing to help," Davies nodded. "My grandpa was a cop, out of the one-two-eight. Illegal's. Was taught to help any way I can."

Kurt simply nodded and walked out the door connected to the lounge. He flashed a winning smile in Jenny-the-eye-rolling-receptionist's direction. It may have been cheap, but her eye roll and flaring nostrils sure made him feel a bit lighter.

*.*

He viewed the discs in his vehicle unit, trying to clear them as quickly as possible. And just as they said, the proof that they were right where they should've been. Both stepping through the doors of the building, onto the elevator and off into their apartments; separate times but there. After viewing the surveillance of the balconies on that side of the building, he concluded they didn't sneak of the terrace either.

Which would've been impossible for big, tough Nick, considering he was as afraid of heights as an elephant were afraid of mice. And Jeff could barely stand to kill a spider, much less kill a woman he considered a friend. In fact, he didn't kill spiders. He put them in jars then took them outside.

He popped the discs out and placed them in his satchel, ordering the vehicle unit to pull up the location for Anderson Enterprises as he did so.

"600 and 3rd." He shook his head, sighing. "Figures. Which floor is Anderson Enterprises located?"

Main office for Anderson Enterprises is located on the 42nd floor.

Kurt furrowed his eyebrows. "How many floors are there on 600 and 3rd?"

There are 42 floors in the corporate offices on 600 and 3rd. Do you wish to key in coordinates?

"No, no. Wait," he paused, a thought hitting him and having him raise his eyebrows. "Who owns the corporate offices?"

Anderson Enterprises owns the building on 600 and 3rd, since 2016.

"About thirty years ago. So unless you were buying buildings while in diapers, Blaine Anderson, I'd say Daddy or Grandpa bought it. Huh. Computer, bring up basic background information on Blaine Anderson."

Blaine Jonathon Everett Anderson, born April 2nd of 2015 to Jonathon Irving Darren Anderson and Elenora Stella Anderson nee Partridge in Manhattan, New York in Vernon Memorial Hospital. Attended Dalton Academy Pre-school, Elementary, Middle, and High School, located in Westerville, Ohio—

Kurt blinked. "Ohio?"

Unspecified command. Please clarify.

"No, no. Continue."

In Westerville, Ohio where he graduated in the top of his class as Valedictorian. Attended New York University School of Law, earning a dual Ph.D. Degree in Law and Society. Became third holder of Anderson enterprises in 2038, at twenty-three years old after Grandfather Irving Everett Darren Anderson died, and CEO on April 24th of 2047, six months ago.

"Stop." He paused a moment, humming thoughtfully while he waited for pedestrians to cross. Busy, busy boy. Still, didn't make him a murderer, just made him a very business savvy rich boy. Maybe—he narrowed his eyes. "Computer, has Blaine Anderson had any affiliation with Julliard?"

Information unknown.

"What do you mean unknown?"

Unable to verify or identify information you are wishing to seek—

"Ha, fucking ha, smart ass. Stop. Is information classified?"

Information unknown.

He frowned, remembering on numerous occasions different people mentioning that he and Santana and Brittany had gone to college together. Then why does public information say he attended NYU and any info pertaining to Julliard remain unknown? He shook his head. "Computer, process any data linking Blaine Anderson, Anderson Enterprises and Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce."

Processing…. Anderson Enterprises bought controlling shares of Hudson Law Firm where—

"Where Santana worked before she became District Attorney. And now it's H&A Law Firm. Continue."

Anderson Enterprises also owns the Roseline School of Performing Arts where Brittany Pierce is one of the main and core dance instructors. Blaine Anderson and Brittany Pierce were in graduating class together—

"At Julliard?" Kurt asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Information unknown.

He scowled and made a mental note to have Abrams dig up any and all information he could. "Continue."

Graduating class of 2038. Blaine Anderson was in graduating class with Santana Lopez at New York University of Law in 2038—

"What the hell?" He cast an incredulous glance at the unit still spouting information. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if his machine was faulty—it wouldn't surprise him, the damn electronics stopped working if he barley glanced at them. "Stop. Send information to home and portable palm unit."

He came into view of the 42 floored building just as the info finished sending. He frowned as a thought hit him. "Computer, bring up visual ID on Blaine Anderson currently."

He glanced up at the 42nd floor as the image was loading and he glanced back down when it pinged. Then he blinked, raising his eyebrows.

If there was a God, he certainly did right by Blaine Anderson. Kurt could say he had seen some attractive men, and Anderson took the cake. In the image he was smiling politely at the camera, but his hazel eyes were all business and cool as they came. His black hair was silky and curly atop his head, with a very handsome face placed underneath.

Kurt frowned, tearing his eyes away from Anderson's jaw line and stepped out of the car, ignoring the odd tightness in his stomach. He stood there a moment, slightly unnerved and annoyed by it, catching himself and smoothing his face.

He shook his head and took a moment to gaze at the building before him. Then, placing his hand on his weapon—a comforting weight, even against invisible emotions—he stepped through the main doors into Anderson Enterprises Empire.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Chapter number seven and the moment we've all been waiting for. This chapter kind of had a life of its own. What I planned to put in here didn't really happen and instead took a whole new direction entirely. Oh well. I hope you enjoy it anyway. **

**For those reviewing, I love each and every one and the smile it puts on my face. Those reading but not reviewing; don't you want to make me smile? A happy author writes more and quicker, you know. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

As soon as he stepped through the large glass doors, he saw blonde-ditz he spoke to earlier at the large receptionists' desk. He stalked over to the large desk across the spacious lobby and slapped his badge on the desk in front of her face. She looked up with a polite smile firmly in place, large beneath confused and vacant purple eyes. "How may I help—" she cut off and her eyes widened when she recognized him.

He smiled largely—and maybe with a bit too much teeth but it made him feel better when she blanched—and tapped his badge. "I need to speak to Blaine Anderson, and I need clearance to get to the forty-second level."

She swallowed nervously, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. "Oh, well, gosh. I'm sorry—uhm. Do you have an appointment, officer?"

"Sergeant. And this," again he tapped his badge with one finger. "Is my appointment."

"I, well uhm. Gosh, you can't—you really can't go up there without an appointment."

"Why don't you clear the lift and I'll speak to his admin about it?"

She frowned slightly in confusion, tilting her head. "Clear the lift?"

Dear god, no one could be this stupid, he thought. He'd go with the bitch receptionist any day. "Clearance. To get to the top floor."

Her expression cleared and she smiled brightly, but then faded when she registered what he had said. The nervous look was back. "Oh. I really can't do that." At his narrowed eyes she rushed, "No I really _can't_. I mean, I don't have the clearance to do that, really."

He gritted his jaw and counted to three, slowly. And was also calmed slightly when her eyes grew rounder every second that passed. "Well, do you have clearance to call up to his admin's office?"

"Yes." She was wearing confusion again.

"And does she have the clearance to let people up there?"

"Well, yes. She's his admin."

"So, maybe you could call her and inform her that Detective Sergeant Hummel needs to speak with Mr. Anderson."

"Oh," she blinked, lips pursed slightly as she thought of it, then nodded. "Well. Yeah, I can do that."

It took every ounce of will power not to roll his eyes when she turned into her headset. "Yes, Miss Pillsbury? This is Cindy, down in the lobby. Oh, no ma'am the screen is working fine; I didn't spill anything this time. Oh, no it's not that either. No, I swear. Oh! Right, sorry. Well, uhm there's a, uhm, Detective Sergeant Hummel down here and he needs to speak to—oh. I—I didn't know I could do that… Oh. Well, should I—okay. I'm sorry. Yes. Yes, I'll just send him up."

She turned to him, a light pink high on her cheekbones and looking abashed. She smiled sheepishly. "I guess I do have the clearance to send you up. Law enforcement and all that. Could I—well. Could I have your badge number?"

He patiently recited the number while she repeated it to the computer and received a green light in return. "Just, uhm. Well just through those doors, you'll find the elevator." She pointed at two doors off the lobby and said timidly, "Have a nice day," as he walked off.

He strode through directly onto the lift, placing his back to one of the mirrors in the empty space as he felt it climb higher. Unlike other elevators he'd rode in large buildings, no music was playing. Just three mirrors on the wall and the reflective doors. Plus, the security eye, small but noticeable if looked for in the top corner. He raised an eyebrow. Not very welcoming, were they? Cool glass and security that obviously said, "I'm watching you." Whatever worked, he guessed.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open smoothly, revealing a petite red head, smiling politely as he stepped off. She reached over and slid a card in front of the doors and the light that was previously green went yellow in stand-by.

"Good afternoon, Detective Hummel. I'm Emma Pillsbury, Mr. Anderson's admin. I apologize for Cindy, she still hasn't grasped the way things work around here." She shook his hand and explained, leading him down a long windowed hallway, where Midtown below was displayed.

He inclined his head slightly, hands in his pockets. "Has she just started?"

Her polite smile turned wry. "Believe it or not, she started here a year ago. It just takes her a bit longer, and until now we haven't had any law enforcement come in to speak with Mr. Anderson while she's been employed here." She led him into a large, comfortable room, all beige and white and cherry wood, gesturing to a plush chair. "If I could have you wait for a moment, Mr. Anderson is currently in a meeting with his second and won't be out for a few minutes yet. If I could get you something to drink? Tea, coffee, water?"

He politely declined, glancing around the room. "His second is the second in command of Anderson Enterprises, isn't he?"

Professionally, she nodded and smoothed down her skirt. "Yes, William Schuester. He was Anderson Sr.'s best friend and helped build Anderson Enterprises." A 'link rand in the distance. "If you'll excuse me."

When she was gone he pulled out his palm unit and pulled up information on William Schuester.

William D. Schuester, fifty-nine years old, second holder of Anderson Enterprises. Worked with Anderson Senior since their college years and—Kurt glanced up at one of the walls to see a picture of two young men grinning widely in front of this very building and holding up a slip of paper—a deed, he saw. Helped build Anderson Enterprises from the ground up, since him and Anderson Senior dropped out of college. And what did Papa Anderson think of his son dropping out of college. He frowned and looked at his unit for anything pertaining to Irving Anderson.

Surprisingly, Irving Anderson had nothing to do with Anderson Enterprise's dawn. Other than being a silent third-part holder, there was nothing else that linked the two together.

Kurt slid his unit in his pocket and stood when he heard feet walking quickly down the hallway. From the visual ID he'd seen, he'd gather that this was William Schuester.

Schuester stopped when he noticed someone in the room, looking frazzled and frustrated. His eyes quickly portrayed surprise, suspicion, then a cool and detached professionalism as he smiled. "Hello. May I help you?"

"Detective Hummel," Schuester looked startled for a moment, then grieved.

"Oh. Yes, I'm sorry. You're closing Santana's case."

"Investigating," Kurt corrected. "It's still ongoing."

Schuester blinked, then frowned. "Oh, again my apologies. Are you waiting to see Blaine?"

"Yes. Complications?"

The older man lips quirked in mocking humor. "The only ones you could expect with circumstances such as these. Blaine insists on working—it's how he handles things," he explained. "I'm urging him to take some time off, go see Brittany and help in any way he can."

Kurt shifted back through the files he'd read. "Are you close to their family?"

"Oh, well, no. Not especially. I think I've met them maybe twice, but with how much Blaine talks about them I feel as if we were close friends. Anyway, I must be going. Blaine should be out at any moment—ah, yes. Here he is."

Kurt was already turning when he heard footsteps, and had gathered himself by the time Schuester had finished. The visual ID had nothing on the real thing, and Kurt spent the time that Schuester was talking and Anderson's attention was trained on the older man to close off his expression and tighten off the reaction he had also had in the car.

Anderson turned his warm eyes to Kurt and something shifted before his expression blanked, and he smiled; the epitome of polite. "Detective Sergeant. I'm sorry about the wait."

As he came closer to shake Kurt's hand, Kurt could see the tired lines around his eyes and the downturn of his lips though they remained quirked. His eyes were blank and polite but for the bit of pain he could see. He was barely an inch shorter than Kurt, and he suspected they'd be the same height if Kurt weren't wearing his boots.

Kurt shook his slightly calloused hand, keeping his expression flat. "Not a problem. I'd like to speak with you, if I could?"

Anderson smiled again—with a bit more charm this time. "Of course." The charm faded as he turned to Schuester, who was standing there awkwardly. The smile hardened a bit, eyes looking a bit more tired. "I'll call you tomorrow, Will."

Schuster's eyes narrowed slightly when Anderson turned his back on him. He nodded sharply and turned on his heel.

Kurt raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing as Anderson released his hand and gestured towards a doorway off of the room. "We can speak in my office. Thank you, Emma." He added to his admin, who must've understood what he was saying because she smiled affectionately and simply nodded.

Anderson opened a tall wooden door, ushering him into one of the largest offices Kurt had ever seen. And even he had to admit it was an office many would long to work in. One whole wall was windows—and Kurt found himself mildly jealous, even if he preferred his skinny window in his home office. Where the room he waited in was warm and welcoming, this was the office of a business shark. Black leather, and steel, Kurt imagined the board room looked something like this. And judging by the easy comfort Anderson seemed to have in the room—grabbing attention and keeping it—Kurt felt a vague sort of pity for any competitors.

"Please, have a seat, Detective." Kurt sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, waiting to see whether Anderson would sit behind the desk—in the seat of power—or choose to sit in the chair next to Kurt.

At the moment, he did neither, walking over to the insta-chef instead. "Would you like some coffee? I'm getting a glass myself."

Deciding there was nothing wrong with being polite, he accepted.

"Cream?" He asked, with his back towards Kurt.

"Black."

"A man after my own heart. Here we are." Anderson returned with two mugs, and to his credit sat in the chair next to Kurt.

Kurt accepted his mug, taking a sip, and stopping dead, staring at the cup. He blinked, took another sip, and had to restrain himself from moaning. This was _real _coffee, not that soy shit that was sold everywhere now. It wasn't the sludge in cop shops; no this was real, coffee bean honest-to-god coffee.

"Problem?" Blaine asked, staring at the man across from him, enjoying the flutter of his eyelashes as he took another sip and the faint pink high on his pale cheeks when he placed the mug down again. He looked like a man who had just had a glimpse of heaven and enjoyed every bit of it.

Kurt turned to Anderson who was watching him with a faint smile. Kurt swallowed down his slight embarrassment and instead sat straight, looking him in the eyes. "Thank you. I had come here today to talk to you about Santana Lopez."

Just like that, the little smile faded, and Kurt felt small pang, and chocked it down mercilessly. Anderson set his coffee side also, folding his hands in his lap. "Yes, I thought so. You're primary on her case." It seemed to take a bit of effort to get that word out. Case.

Kurt nodded. "Yes. You were the last person Mrs. Lopez came to visit yesterday evening."

Anderson glanced up sharply, grief momentarily filling his clouded eyes, before he closed them. "I was." He opened his eyes, more composed now. "She was taking Brittany to one of my restaurants for their anniversary. One of my hotels, also. Which, I'm sure you already know."

Kurt gave nothing away, though he had already known both. "What time had she arrived?"

"About four ten. She wanted to go over last minute details, wanting everything to be perfect. She was a bit of a perfectionist." Anderson said, eyes lightening a bit with a smile.

"What details?"

Anderson shrugged. "Lighting in the restaurant and hotel room, music, transportation, the menu."

"Who paid for all of this?"

"I did. They're good friends and they've both been stressed lately, I wanted to ease it a bit and I had no problem with it."

"Stressed? Stressed how?"

"Britt not so much as Santana." Anderson lifted his mug to his lips. "I don't know what was with her, but something was wrong. I had seen her at the kids' birthday party and she seemed a bit wrung out, antsy about something. Obviously she covered it around Britt, but one of my jobs is to read people. Comes with the job description. Like cops, I suppose, I need to read people in order to get my job done."

"You think her wife wouldn't be aware?"

"Britt loved Santana to pieces—but even she couldn't pay attention to her twenty-four seven. Not to mention Brittany and Mike's scholarship period is coming up, so she'd been preoccupied with that."

"Her scholarship period?"

"For the older teenagers in the high school. Roseline is a public Performing Arts school—elementary, middle, and High School. Roseline and the Universities—Nyada, Julliard, give out four scholarships once a year—two to juniors, and two to seniors. There are a lot of students to sift through and she and Mike Chang have to decide."

"How was she stressed out?"

"I only saw her the one time in person before yesterday evening. But even on screen she looked tired, she was crankier than normal, she looked a bit haunted and strung out. It was another reason I offered the restaurant and hotel room, they deserve some relaxation."

"Mr. Anderson—" Kurt was cut off.

"Blaine, please."

Kurt wanted to blink but didn't, knowing Anderson was watching. Instead, he tilted his head. "Blaine then," the word felt strange on his tongue—sliding easily but twisting it in knots at the same time. "How would you describe your relationship with Santana?"

"Hot-tempered," he said immediately, and laughed a little at himself, rubbing the bottom half of his face. "Our tempers always got to one another. Something always grated with us; I'd go to the ends of the earth for either her or Britt, but it didn't mean that we didn't argue constantly. I thought of her as an annoying, obnoxious little sister," his jaw clenched slightly. "And she thought of me as a—what did she call me—a 'stubborn, dapper, prep school boy with more hair gel than brain cells.' Our friendship was unstable, but none of it was ever—real. We got on each others nerves. She irritated me." He glanced up at Kurt, directly into his eyes. "But I'd never hurt her."

Instead of replying to the last bit, Kurt continued. "You graduated from NYU the same year." He waited to see what Anderson would have to say about the whole NYU/Julliard situation.

"Yeah, but I didn't actually know her until I went to some classes at Julliard. There I met Brittany, and well, she introduced me to Santana."

"You went to Julliard."

"Kind of. An uncle was on the admission board, and with the Anderson name reaching everywhere, I didn't attend the way you would traditionally."

"How is that?"

"Detective, I was raised knowing I would someday take over Anderson Enterprises. I enjoy it, the business, but I've also always had a place in my heart for music. My father and I reached an agreement where if I got my accelerated Ph.D. at NYU then I could also do a part time four-year run at Julliard. I didn't take the core classes, just the music aspect."

"Your public information says there isn't any known info as to whether you attended, but it says you graduated with Brittany Pierce."

"Because I didn't' go the traditional route, I didn't actually attend. I graduated, but I'm not on the register."

Well. That explained that. Even though it was a bit confusing, it wasn't something that hadn't been done before. "What time did Santana leave your company yesterday?"

"She was only here for about twenty minutes. She was in a bit of a rush. So until about four-thirty."

"What happened while she was here?"

"Well, as I'd said, we went over the details. I had the final product of the menu sent up, so she had taste tested it, finding it to her liking. Had a small toast to her making it through these years happily married, then she left to drop by the restaurant then home to get ready."

"Were you two the only ones here?"

"Emma was outside in the offices out there. Will was dropping by hoping to discuss a client, but when he saw Santana was here he left after dropping a file that he wanted me to view. Santana left immediately after that, in a hurry to make sure the night went perfectly. But that was the last I had seen her." The unspoken 'ever' hung heavily in the air as he took a sip of his lukewarm coffee.

"Where were you between four-thirty and seven o'clock yesterday evening?"

"I was here in the office until about six, as was Emma. She left when I did. I drove home, and reached there at about six ten. I worked until nine thirty then had an early night."

Leaving his time open and available at the time of the murder. "Did you speak with anybody at the time you were home?"

Anderson tilted his head. "I spoke to Will from about seven until seven thirty. We were going over blueprints on a building where planning on making into apartment complexes." He explained then quirked one side of his lips. "You can check the records."

"I will."

Kurt felt his pulse skip as Anderson flashed a quick grin—charming and amused. "I have no doubt. You fascinate me, Detective."

He ignored him. "Do you own a 1945 Château d'Yquem?"

Instead of looking surprised, Anderson's eyes remained cool, and he tilted his head to the side. "I do, yes. That's the bottle of wine that Santana and Brittany were going to drink, and the wine that Santana, Will and I toasted with." His eyes sharpened. "Why?"

One way to figure out; shock factor. "A mild Buzzer was ingested in the bottle when Santana had drunk it."

Anderson's shoulders jerked before he could control it, and his face registered shock before it too was controlled. Then he looked cool; calculating and not just a little intimidating. "That's not possible. The bottle was sealed—and has been since it was bottled a century ago.

"Seals can be broken; replaced."

"And the probabilities of that happening?" Anderson shot back. "Highly unlikely."

"And yet it happened."

Anderson sat back as if exhausted, and he stared towards the wall of windows behind his desk—though Kurt doubted he really saw anything.

Because Kurt felt every instinct, personal and professional, telling him this man didn't lace the drinks, he asked gently, "How possible is it that the wine was broken laced and resealed?"

Anderson blinked and Kurt saw his Adam's apple bob once, then he shook his head. "It's not. At all. I own many vineyards, and usually I'd have them shipped for any occasion I'd need so it could've happened then, but this bottle came from my own collection in my own cellar. One of my personal favorite wines, and I felt that Brittany would enjoy it. She doesn't like wine," he said almost absent-mindedly, still gazing out the window. "Thinks it's too tart, she doesn't like sour. But I thought they'd like this one. It came from my home, and was held in my office until I broke the seal. So no, Detective," he said, turning his eyes toward him with such intensity that Kurt had to fight his breath from hitching. "It's not possible."

Kurt stood, turning off his recorder as he did so, feeling slightly unsettled by those eyes. Instead of showing it he turned towards the man who was staring up at him with a considering and curious gaze. "Thank you for your time, and seeing me. I'll possibly need to do a follow up, so keep in mind over the next few days. And it'd be best if you didn't leave the state."

"For my own well being or consideration of the case? I'll keep it in mind, Detective." He added and he leaned forward to shake Kurt's hand, holding it for a moment longer than necessary.

Kurt pulled his hand pack, not giving any reaction and simply nodded. "I'll contact you when needed. I'll see myself out."

Kurt turned towards the door and felt Blaine Anderson's eyes on his back as he left.

*.*

After Kurt Hummel had left, Blaine sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, letting himself feel the ever-present exhaustion he's had for eight months. Longer, if he let himself think about it.

He let out a deep breath, his hands in his pockets as he glanced around his office—strange thinking about it like that considering how long it's been his father's—feeling unsettled and out of place. He didn't lie to the detective when he said he enjoyed business, he did. But he also didn't think he'd become CEO until a far, far off day in the future. Barely a month after turning twenty two, and pulling the reins from a father who died of a stroke in his early sixties.

No, he thought. He didn't lie. But this wasn't supposed to be his for a very long time.

He shook his head, walking over to the large windows taking up a whole of his walls. He stared down at the city as he had since his father do many times before. It was always a fascinating site, one that usually left him breathless, but this time he felt nothing but sorrow. For his father, for Santana, for Brittany, and maybe for himself.

But with it he also felt anger—cool and present. He had felt it since Tina Cohen-Chang had called him with the news yesterday evening, Brittany's muffled and tired sobs in the background. He felt when he had visited her this morning and had one of his closest friends shaking in his arms. He felt it when he thought of Santana—stubborn, obstinate, and compassionate Santana—being left naked in the cold, and torn away from her family without a second thought. And he felt it again at the thought of someone drugging his friend by using Blaine and Blaine's possessions.

He felt it in his veins, hot and rushing, straining to get out. He buried it down instead, pushing it away. Now wasn't the time to lose his head and find a spare droid to beat his knuckles raw against.

He shook his head, walking over to the table where the two cooled cups of coffee were. He smiled slightly as he lifted them, thinking of Detective Sergeant Kurt Hummel's reaction to it—and at Kurt Hummel himself.

He felt his lips quirk slightly, and the curiosity that he'd never been able to break himself of fill him. The slender brunette had drawn his eyes the minute he stepped into his own foyer—and when those flat cop eyes of an indescribable color had met his, he felt them like a blow.

Odd. When he saw him he didn't think of cop. He saw a tall, willowy brunette with skin like porcelain and a gorgeous mouth. It was something he wasn't used to considering he could usually spot one a mile away—something his father had taught him at a young age considering his early business wasn't exactly legal. It was now, of course, but even years ago it was a different matter.

He placed the cups in the office dishwasher beneath the insta-chef. Intelligent, stubborn, and sexy—three things he had gathered of Kurt Hummel just from that initial meeting, and three very good reasons in his mind to take another look at a man. He shook his head at himself, sighing softly. Yes, Kurt Hummel would be a fascinating man to know, indeed.

An idea occurred to him and he felt a smirk twist his mouth when he walked to his intercom, placing a request for Emma. Satisfied afterwards, he returned behind his desk in front of the open city and returned to what he was doing before the fascinating Kurt Hummel had arrived.

*.*

Kurt sat in front of his computer at central, waiting for Puckerman to arrive.

"Engage, Hummel, code five access. ID 785256D. Open file Lopez."

ID and voice print recognized, Hummel. Proceed.

"Open sub file Anderson, Blaine. Suspect Anderson—known to victim. Possibility of emotional involvement high.

"Opportunity to commit crime. Suspect knows victim's schedule of night murdered and had opportunity to drug and tranq her. Suspect has no alibi for time the murder committed.

"Factor in personality of suspect. Cool, aloof, confident, intelligent. Interesting balance between aggressive, laid-back and charming.

"Motive," here he paused, slightly uncertain.

Why would a man like Blaine Anderson kill? Passion, personal gain? He didn't think so. Status, wealth he could gain any other way. Men or women—sex or otherwise—he would win without trying. He suspected he was capable of violence—however charming he may seem—but he suspected it'd be done coldly. More in calculation.

Which the murder did have, he gave. But there was an overlaying film of crudeness Kurt couldn't connect with the elegant man he had met.

But perhaps that was the point.

"Motive, currently unknown." He said after pursuing it, hesitating only slightly. "With known personal and professional information and profile on suspect, compute probability."

His unit churned, and made a sharp grating sound that had other cops in the area glancing around. Kurt scowled at the electronics, baring his teeth until it processed.

Probability Anderson, Blaine perpetrator given supposition and known information, eighty-two point three percent.

Eighty-two. Kurt sat back, hummed. Low, but still possible. He had the possibility, he had the means. And, judging by the cool violence Kurt had sensed just under Anderson's icy surface, he had means.

So why, Kurt wondered while staring at his screen, couldn't he make it play? He just couldn't see it. He couldn't see Anderson drugging and stripping down a defenseless woman, slicing her open and ramming a rod of metal through her head. Then cutting out her tongue afterwards and dumping her body on the cool September Street. Kurt couldn't visualize him doing it to any woman, much less a woman he had claimed to know and been close to for years.

But there were possibilities, and there were facts. If he could gather enough of them he could request a psychiatric evaluation.

Wouldn't that be interesting, Kurt thought with a quiet snort. Journeying through Blaine Anderson's head would be a fascinating experience.

"Yo, Hummel." Puckerman greeted, breezing onto the floor.

Kurt raised an eyebrow and slanted him a narrow look. "So nice of you to join me."

The other man grinned without shame. "A man's gotta eat."

"You're late because you grabbed food?"

He pulled a bag of soy fries and a tube of coke from behind his back. "Got you something too."

Kurt snatched them, breaking the seal on the soda. "You're forgiven. What've you got?"

Puck sat a hip on Kurt's desk, munching on his own overly-salted fries. Kurt grimaced even as he spoke. "Not much from any possible wit's on that street, or in the building at all. Not a very nice neighborhood, and most don't have a very nice image of cops." He shook his head. "That Berry girl shouldn't be walking down that way to begin with.

"Anyway," he continued, taking a gulp of his Pepsi, "Most deny seeing anything. 'Didn' see nothin', don' know what the fuck ever you're talking about.' Is the main response I've gotten. Others didn't even mention their doors. You know how it is. But Abrams' got a run going on the tenant list."

Kurt glanced at him suspiciously. "How did Abrams get a tenant list?"

Puck grinned. "I'm guessing you got in to see Anderson."

With a frown Kurt leaned back. "Yes, I did. Why? Oh wait, don't tell me."

"Yep," Puck nodded. "Guy owns the building, of course. Must've made an impression on him to make him want to cooperate so much. But," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, leering at Kurt, "I can definitely see the charm."

Like Kurt did whenever Puckerman had something to say, he ignored him, a bit irritated that Anderson had willingly sent over the tenant list before Kurt could nag him about it. Kurt shook his head. "Have Abrams send it to my home unit, and send what interviews you've managed there also."

Kurt stood and Puckerman looked at him questioningly. "You working from the home base?"

"For a while, yeah. Being in such proximity to your pretty face is just too much; I may do something unprofessional."

Instead of replying in turn, Puck gazed at him steadily, a bit of concern creeping into his eyes. "Catch some Z's too, yeah? How much sleep have you gotten in the past thirty eight?"

Four, maybe. Kurt rolled his eyes instead of glaring like he wanted to because he knew Puck was right. "Gee Mom, you worry too much. I'll tag you when I need you."

"Now I feel so used." Though the reply was expected, Kurt still felt Puck's worried eyes on him.

"Geez. I'll take some down time, just quit it."

Puck raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I will," Kurt said defensively.

"I'll believe it when the shadows under your eyes recede. And seriously, what's with the coat? You love and obsess over clothes and fashion but you wear shit like this," he tugged on one of the black sleeves on Kurt's ratty suit jacket. He tugged it closer to him protectively.

"It's warm," he argued. "And besides, not much you can do for fashion when it comes to a cop's salary. Unless you're Noah Puckerman and your Granny send you a monthly allowance," he said, eyeing one of Puck's many suits.

He swiped invisible lint of his shoulder and gave Kurt a haughty look. "Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful."

Kurt snorted. "For someone who insists that he's straight, you sure do act gay."

"I'm metro sexual and very comfortable in my own skin."

"Is that what your mother tells you?"

"Get stuffed, Hummel. And you're missing a button."

Kurt glanced down and, sure enough, a button was missing on his coat. He swore and Puck glanced at him eagerly. "Does this mean we can burn it?"

Kurt turned on his heel after casting a dark look towards him, Puck's pleads of mercy for 'the poor ugly thing' ringing behind him.

*.*

As soon as Kurt walked through his door, he had to crack down on every cell in his body longing for his bed. He rubbed his tired eyes and went to pour himself another cup of coffee, contemplating taking an energy pill. He hated them, he always felt jittery and out of place in his own skin. Not to mention after the eight hours they ran through your system, you crashed—and hard.

Compromising with himself, he took a blocker instead for the headache developing behind his eyes. He hated those too, but they were the lesser of two evils in his eyes.

He flipped on his living kitchen light, which also lit his small living room, and was just turning to the insta-chef when a knock sounded on his door.

Frowning because no one came to his place besides Jeff and on occasion Nick, he walked over and glanced at the security screen. On the opposite side of the door a teenaged boy stood, shifting on his feet nervously and wearing the mandatory uniform for package delivery. Still frowning, Kurt opened his door and the boy shoved a slip of paper at him to sign. Glancing at the box the kid held, he returned the clip board and received the package.

He turned back inside, closing the door as the kid was walking away and set it on his counter. He opened the box to gold paper and instantly smelled it before he saw it.

He reached in for the card lying on top of the package of real coffee grounds, unaware that his eyes had softened. It simply said 'Since you seemed to enjoy it, Blaine A.'

Kurt shook his head, wondering vaguely how he knew where Kurt lived. You couldn't randomly pluck a cop's address out of a hat.

He lifted the bag out of the box and despite himself began to smile. Oh yes, Blaine Anderson's mind would certainly be an interesting place to journey.

*.*

Elsewhere, Officer Sam Evans was trying to get a hold of Kurt Hummel on his communicator. He swore when it fell from his fingers, picking it up with steady hands though inside he was shaking. He glanced around, swearing when his fucking communicator wouldn't work after the drop, one of too many.

"Fuck, fuck, c'mon man, just go through, I promise I'll try not to drop you ever again." He murmured anxiously. He didn't know what to do in this kind of situation. They didn't teach you this kind of shit in the Academy, especially when you were a fucking green officer. He still worked traffic, for god's sake. Shit, he told Lopez he should've gone to someone immediately. He should've gone to Homicide instead of putting it off—but she wanted to be sure. She didn't want him to slip away. And now she was dead and Sam couldn't get his fucking device to work.

Voice activation wasn't working, so he tried manually. The monotone 'one moment, please' came from it and he could've wept. Glancing both directions, he crossed the parking garage of his building, feeling the back of his neck prickle. He walked faster, almost to the door and out into the lobby, and he glanced into the corner where he knew the security eye was.

His steps faltered when he saw the light was red. Deactivated.

Sixteen steps until he reached the door and his communicator finally worked. Instead of tagging Hummel's division, he went with gut instinct instead. "Evans, Officer Sam. Officer needs backup at one—"

He didn't even hear anyone coming up behind him. His communicator was out of his hand, and an elbow slammed onto the back of his neck, taking him down hard. He reached to his waist for his basic street stunner, his only weapon. He was flipped around before he could reach it; head tilted up to face a person who he couldn't make out in the dim lighting. He caught a flash of light on a long, slim piece of metal, before it fell sharply and cleanly through his temple.

Sam Evan's body fell back after the person removed the metal from his head. A small pool of blood lay underneath him, matting his hair as his eyes filmed over with death, still staring lifelessly.

The person stood back, placed the metal in a portable baggie and walked toward he locked door where the hallway went to enter Evans' apartment lobby. They unlocked the door with the master they had been supplied, and once on the other side of the door, activated the security by remote.

The person was in and out within minutes, killing Sam Evans cleanly and efficiently. They were informed to simply get it done without everything else they had done to Santana Lopez. Sam Evans simply needed to be gone without the fuss that Lopez's death had.

The person stepped onto the cool street after crossing the empty lobby—just how they had planned it. That part complete, they had to wait twenty-four hours for their funds to be deposited, then the instructions for later.

For now, they decided, they were going to get something to eat. Something sweet, maybe. They deserved a reward.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I could give you a billion reasons why this chapter is so late…. But I'm sure you'd rather read the chapter instead of reading my excuses, so I'll just let you get to it.**

**It's a longer one, though! Maybe that'll sweeten you up? Just a little bit? Maybe?  
>I won't even ask for reviews. I don't deserve them. <strong>

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Kurt was sure that his eyes were going to start bleeding. He had now clue how the electronic-geeks up in TEDD did it day in and day out. He was barely through five hours and his eyes were screaming.

He pushed back from his computer, rubbing his aching eyes and checked off another person. So far he had been through all the interviews Puckerman had, and half the basic backgrounds Abrams had sent his way. So far, nothing had popped on either side. He was clearing out the weeds, but it was going slowly, and he felt like he was missing something entirely.

He frowned slightly, rubbing the back of his neck when he remembered his conversation with Abrams. Everything was okay for the beginning, trying to get the e-geek to speak human and not comp-u speak, going over which backgrounds he'd run through, which Kurt should go over, which linked and which had no bearing whatsoever. It was fine until Kurt brought up the fact that he'd need security discs from Anderson's midtown offices and the outside security from the apartments where Lopez was dropped off.

Abrams had paused, looking hesitant and slightly wary. "Well, ah, D-Serg, about that. Not much nagging to be done, really. Anderson's security head sent them over from both places. There's no tampering from that source. But, well, you should take a look at the apartment complex."

Feeling mildly irritated Kurt had watched the discs. Anderson's offices were all well and good; Santana had arrived at four ten and left at four thirty, looking just as she had when she had gone in. Schuester had left at the time indicated, as had Anderson and Pillsbury. There was no evidence of tampering.

Though with a guy like Blaine Anderson, he had a feeling that he could've edited it without showing a single blip.

The apartment complex, on the other hand, was a different story. There was a five minute time frame where it was entirely blank. One minute there was a scene, blackness, then a body. The security officer during that time period had sent the disk to his boss, who sent it to his boss, who was the major head of the Security division. He in turn sent it to Anderson, who gave it to Abrams along with the office security.

And when Kurt was still on the link wondering why the hell he was being so cooperative, Abrams had shifted awkwardly. "Well, ah. He also left a message."

Kurt's eyes had narrowed. "A message?"

"Uh, yeah. Just, y'know. To pass on to you. He uhm, well hopes you enjoyed his little gift—he was happy to give it. And he is willing to cooperate wholly and completely with the NYPD and your investigation, all you have to do is ask." Abrams blanched at the gleam in Kurt's eye. "Don't kill the messenger, that's just what the guy said. Hey, how did you mange to get into talk to him anyway? The guy's like—"

At that moment Kurt chose to click of the transmission before he did something he'd regret. He hated apologies and he knew he'd have to make one if he stayed on any longer.

He wasn't really pissed, he admitted. He was irritated by the fact that Anderson was making his blood race. And, judging by the way he reacted to the coffee, making him act like a teenage girl with a crush.

He cast a guilty glance to the fourth cup of that amazing, wonderful coffee he'd had already. But you couldn't blame him, he reasoned with himself, with all that soy product and recycled shit everything was made of now, a real hit of coffee to a cop is like a bag of gold to a beggar. It was just too hard to resist.

He was getting a bit punchy, he realized. He wanted to put in a couple more hours, but knew it'd be useless if he didn't even process what he was doing. And if he stayed up he wouldn't be at his best, and Santana Lopez deserved no less.

He stood, stretched and downed the rest of his coffee, locking down his unit as he did so. He lugged himself into his bedroom, stripping all the way and leaving his rumpled clothes where they fell.

His bed had never looked so inviting. In just his boxers, he flopped down on his cool sheets and let his eyes slide shut and blank. Just a few hours down…

And his eyes popped back open when he heard his communicator. Clamping down on a groan, he sat and reached for his device, instantly alert despite his previous exhaustion. "Video off," he ordered. "Hummel."

"Dispatch Hummel, Detective Sergeant Kurt…"

*.*

Cleaner this time, he thought, hot anger coursing through him. This was what he was looking for. This was how it was supposed to be the first time.

No muss, no fuss.

Plain and simple death for Officer Sam Evans.

If Santana Lopez's death hadn't already had every cop out for this guy's blood, Sam Evan's death was going to do the trick.

A fucking cop. A fucking kid. Kurt blanked his face of everything he felt and reminded himself to do the job. He sealed up and turned on his recorder.

"Victim is Evans, Officer Sam, by identification. DOB is October 18, 2026, twenty-one years old…"

*.*

He lived alone, and he lived in a small, but obviously loved apartment of an officer just out of the academy. He also loved the color blue—judging by how almost everything he owned was some shade of the color—was a bit obsessed with new and vintage video games, and most of his socks were mismatched.

He was also close to his parents and siblings. Frames were everywhere. On the coffee table, on the shelf in the small hallway, print-outs on the fridge in the kitchen and more on his desk. Pictures throughout his life, birthdays, graduations, and the just-because moments where everyone had huge and happy grins on his faces.

Kurt couldn't remember having any of those moments—and didn't know if it was easier or harder on someone.

He walked through Evans' sealed apartment, gathering and trying to figure out how Sam Evans and Santana Lopez were connected. Because they were connected. The method of killing spoke of that obviously enough.

But why? Why were they connected? And how? There was nothing to point to the fact that Santana had even ever met Sam Evans, much less have her death entwined with his.

A hard ass District Attorney who lived with and loved with her children and wife. A still-green rookie, an officer just out of the academy who lived alone. She worked criminals, he worked traffic.

His death was clean, hers was meant to look sloppy.

Both were efficient.

Why the fuss with Santana? Why was the murder meant to look like a crime of passion instead of what it was; cold, calculated, and ruthless?

Because something else was here, he thought. Maybe it was only meant to be Santana to begin with. Maybe that was all it was supposed to be. But something changed. And the façade went out the window in favor of getting it done.

Something else was going on.

But what? What the fuck was he missing?

He walked into Sam's room and felt the pity in his stomach churn. It was still a boy's room.

The bedding—a light blue—was rumpled, sheets tangled together and pillows knocked to the floor. Restless sleep, it looked like. There were game consoles in a cabinet under the small screen next to his home unit—also plugged with vid's and games. He had racks lined with music, and posters on his walls of various bands and comic-cons.

Posters, for Christ sakes.

Sure, he had the obvious in his bedside drawer. Spermacide and the magazines any male is bound to have.

But the room was purely boy—not even yet a man.

Kurt stepped silently into the adjoining bathroom—small, but with all of the necessities. Rumpled towel on the floor, and recycling bin set to full.

Kurt frowned and opened the medicine cabinet. Pre-approved departmental tranqs—half empty. He turned the bottle over to see they were prescribed barely two weeks ago. Bottle of blockers too—half full of the little blue pills.

Still frowning Kurt stepped back in to the bedroom. He ran a finger on the desk and with it came a thin film of dust. He walked into the kitchen, opening the fridgie door and seeing a couple bottle of fizzie pops, some Pepsi, and a candy bar. He programmed the insta-chef, and it was still almost full. Rifling through, he saw that it was refilled almost two weeks ago, also.

Evan's was neat—then why did he let the apartment clutter? If he wiped down his fridgie and screen, why didn't he make his bed? Every game and music disc he had was organized and alphabetized. This was a healthy boy who seemed to love food if the selection he had in his insta-chef was any indication—then why didn't he eat any of it?

"What was going on, Sam?" Kurt murmured.

He ended back in front of Sam's home unit. He frowned when he realized it was coded and protected, tagging it for TEDD and sending a message to Abrams to handle it.

He stepped back and took one last look around the room. With pity churning his stomach he turned and left Sam Evan's apartment to the sweepers.

*.*

Kurt made his way to Sylvester's office, knowing better than to not update and report. Especially now.

He knew on some level it was awful, but when it was a cop it changed everything.

Her door was already open onto the floor when he arrived, which was unusual in itself. What was more unusual was that she was sitting down when he walked in. Usually if she were in she'd be standing at her window, the better to intimidate you, my dear.

He blinked and shook his head slightly, clearing the fuzz. Alert, he reminded himself. Take an energy pill directly after reporting. That's what he'd do.

Sylvester looked up when he entered, and everything about her was solemn. She gestured him to one of her chairs, and though he preferred to be standing when he gave his oral report, he sat.

"It connects to your case?"

Kurt nodded, knowing exactly what she was asking. "Yes. Both victims were killed the same way ME confirmed—rounded metal instrument through the temple. So far there are no prints or fibers anywhere from the lab, same as first. The only difference is the tongue, carvings on the stomach and other excess bruising and lacerations. But it's the same, Lieutenant. Something was off the first time; it felt like too much, something trying to be that it wasn't. This fits."

She nodded and gazed at him soberly. "You do realize this is going to change everything?"

He nodded, already having witnessed it just from the press tagging his professional and personal 'link. When it was a cop's blood spilled it always changed things.

"There's something I need to ask you, and I hate it as much as you, but were they dirty?"

Kurt swallowed down the greasy feeling in his throat. "On Santana Lopez, no not yet. I've had the case for barely twenty-four hours but so far from what I've witnessed she wasn't. There's something else going on," he added, "but I'm not sure what yet. I haven't had the chance to dig in to Evan's but I will."

She nodded, and Kurt could tell she was unhappy by the lines around her eyes. "I need to report into the Commander. Two murders in twenty-four hours, one a cop and one New York's District Attorney, there needs to be damage control. You may need to do a press conference. I know," she said, already assuming his unhappy response. "But like I said; it needs to be done. You may not have to, the commander may decide not to waste your time with the press and politics, but if he says you do, you'll get it done."

He nodded once. She sighed and rand a hand through her blonde hair. She looked so tired, and Kurt remembered with a start just how old she was. She'd been a cop for nearly thirty years before she chose him, and another twelve years since. He'd forgotten considering how strong and abrasive she usually was. But right now she looked tired.

"Get back to work then," she said. "I expect updated reports. Close the door on your way out."

He nodded and stood, and did as she said. When he turned back towards the room full of cops, it was silent, a rare occurrence. Every eye in the room was on him and he knew that they had heard.

You take one cop, you take all of them.

He stood for a moment, silent. He met every eye in the room, and Puck was seated at his cube, face grim and eyes blazing. The other man gave a short nod, understanding Kurt, and went back to his unit.

"We lost one of our own." Kurt said quietly, but steadily. "Even before, it hit close enough with DA Lopez. But whoever this is took one of ours. Now it's personal.

"Any and all assistance is welcome, and for second-grades, expected. Dump your work load on a lower; I've gotten clearance from the LT.

"We're going to find who did this," he said with certainty. "Not only because a cop was killed. Maybe that makes us more determined, angrier, but not only. We're going to find them because they took a life, because they played jury, judge, and God. They took a man and a woman's life, a wife and mother, a son and friends. We're going to find who did this because it's the only option."

All jaws were clenched and all eyes burning. Kurt knew he'd have the assistance of every cop in this room even if it wasn't an officer. It was because he was asking, and it made a warm, proud felling grow in his stomach. But he also knew he'd have them all and more because this was a cop, and that changed things.

He met all of their eyes once more and gave a short nod, striding towards the door and signaling Puckerman on his way out of the silent room.

*.*

They walked in silence for a moment, taking the glide instead of the lift. They paused in front of a vending machine, Kurt swiped his badge in front of the scanner and entered a selection.

Welcome Hummel, Detective Sergeant Kurt. You have purchased a Yum Yum snack bar which comes to one point six credits. An entirely natural product, made from soy, chocolate and caramel substitutes—

"Natural, right." Kurt snorted, grabbing the bar and ripping it open. He split it in half, handing one to Puck who shot him a shocked look. Geez, Kurt thought. You threaten to bite someone's hand off when it comes to food one time…

"What do you need me to do?" Puck asked finally, breaking the silence.

Kurt swallowed the sticky and imitation chocolate bar, throwing the wrapper in a recycling bin on the way to the lift. He lowered his voice as neighboring cops strode around them. "I need to you find out if Evan's was dirty. Yeah, I know," Kurt said when Puck swore. "But I need to be sure and I trust you to be thorough without sending flags up to IAA that were looking. If they have anything to begin with I'll probably get a visit from one of them, but if that's the case, I want it to be put off as long as possible. We're just checking, and if there's more, I'll go to Sylvester and she'll go to Internal Affairs. But I don't want it to come to that just yet."

Puck swore again, running his hand over his shaved head. "Why not ask Abrams?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow and spoke dryly. "Use your detective shield. If anybody in Internal Affairs were going to snoop and see if Evan's is being scanned the first place they'd look would be the Technology and Electronics Detective Department. But I know you," he continued. "And I know that while you may be a Homicide Cop, you could get into TEDD easily and outshine Abrams. I'm asking you to do this so we can get it done quietly. And if there is nothing on Evan's we can say we checked, and we don't have to put a smear on his badge."

They were quiet again as they stepped onto the elevator, and Kurt noticed the side-long glances from other cops, the nods and the tightness around their mouths.

Cops, he thought, can be any division, any rank and their still ours.

They stepped into the garage and Puck finally sighed. "You know I'll do it. But fuck, Hummel. Nosing at another cop. It just blows larger-than-life."

Kurt nodded, understanding completely, but knowing that this was the only way if they wanted to keep it quiet. "Just don't send up flags, and try to keep it within the eye of SafeGuard?"

Puck gave a small smile. "Right. Like I could try and get anything past the epitome of electronic spies. They'd have me out of my chair and fined up the ass before I could say 'whoops'."

Kurt shot him a mild glare. "Just watch your toes."

"Aw, shucks, Serg. Would you miss me if I was thrown in a cell?"

"I'd miss you as much as I'd miss sparring with a junkie on Bionic."

Puck shook his head and shot him a leering grin, though his heart obviously wasn't in it as much as usual. "Liar. Anyway. Where are you heading?"

Kurt kicked his tire. "Fight with the blonde bimbo at Anderson's Empire."

Puckerman frowned. "I thought you had seen him already?"

Kurt nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I did. But guess who owns Evan's apartments—and who employ's the security there?"

"That's not surprising. The guy owns everything."

"I know. And I wouldn't go back if it were just that. But guess who went to private high school with the vic's older brother?"

Puck blinked in surprise. "No shit?"

Kurt nodded. "Two years ahead of Anderson, but they were in their school's Glee club together. Evan's older brother transferred to Dalton Academy after altercations at his old school. Transferred in the middle of the year of his senior year, Anderson's sophomore year."

"I thought Evan's was raised in New York?"

"He was. Right after the older brother graduated his family moved here. There's a fourteen year age difference between the two. Evan's was four when they moved, so he was raised here."

"I guess it'd be enough to want to contact him about, but still. The little brother of a guy he went to Glee club with for half a year in high school? Doesn't it sound like a stretch, Hummel?"

"Maybe. But Evan's also knew Tina Cohen-Chang."

Puck looked at him, eyes narrowed. "Say what, now?"

"Brittany Pierce's best friend. Evans's mother owned a little shop in Manhattan where Tina worked summer's, and baby-sat Evan's on the side. He had a couple old pictures in a digital photo album."

"Huh," Puck leaned against the side of the car. "But no one's to say that Anderson actually had anything to do with him. He'd never even met any of Pierce's and Lopez's friends."

"Another angle to be work."

"True." Puck pushed off the car to face Kurt. "How'd that go anyway? Is he a total spoiled ass-faced Momma's pampered boy?"

Kurt snorted out a laugh, steeling his stomach against the knots when he thought of Anderson involved in the case. Because it was only when he was involved in the case. "No, actually. A bit arrogant, but then again, so are you. He's just…" he trailed off, trying to think of a word to describe Kurt's impression of the confusing man he'd had one meeting with. He couldn't think of a word frustrating enough, so he just shrugged, turning and entering his code onto the door of his car.

"Holy shit," because Puck had breathed it and sounded amazed, Kurt turned to him in confusion. "You dig this guy."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Dig? No, I don't." Am insanely attracted to, confused by, and nervous around, maybe. But there was no 'digging' involved whatsoever.

"You do. Oh my god, you so freaking do." Kurt wouldn't' have been surprised if Puck were to squeal and start clapping his hands.

"If you're finished embracing your inner preteen girl, I have a cop killer to find." That caused Puck to deflate for a moment before he grinned.

"If you accepted yours, you wouldn't be as uptight. You need to get laid."

"For the last time, I'm not interested."

"Not me, though you're missing out. Anderson."

"Have you forgotten he is one of the prime suspects and that I'm still not interested?"

Puck shrugged. "You so are. And what does your gut say?"

That Blaine Anderson was innocent. But it could just be his libido talking, not his gut. "It says that he stays on the short list until I can prove otherwise."

"Ah, so since you're trying to clear him, it means you feel that he didn't do it."

"Jesus, what are you, five? No. I'd do the same with anyone. I did it with Brittany Pierce—"

"Who your gut said didn't kill her wife."

"And their other associates and acquaintances." He finished with a glare. "I'm not _trying _to clear him, I'm tying off all ends and working every angle. I'm working the case and trying to find a murderer, not clearing and losing my head over the coffee sending, gorgeous, arrogant and charming CEO of a large empire."

Puck lifted an eyebrow. "'Coffee sending'?"

Kurt deflated, shoulders slumping in defeat. "He sent me coffee. A bag of coffee. Real coffee."

Puck frowned. "Like—"

"Like from real coffee beans, real caffeine, not veggie and soy additives. The real stuff, liquid gold."

Puck raised both eyebrows. "And you haven't jumped the guy?"

"There's the small detail of him possibly being a murderer."

"I see you didn't say that you weren't interested in jumping him."

Kurt gave a small frustrated scream and turned to open his door, slamming it while Puck laughed.

He pulled out of his slot, hoping he got Puck's foot.

*.*

If Kurt hadn't outgrown blushing years and years earlier, he was pretty sure he would be. All he wanted to do now though was smack Puck in his stupid smirking face. Or Anderson. Either was fine, really.

He shook his head, clearing it of all thoughts but the case. It took a moment, but he managed by brute will.

Kurt blinked suddenly. Anderson Enterprises always was on top when it came to technology—including security. Especially security. How was the camera jammed during those ten minutes?

Competing company? Homemade was out of the question—the tech aspect was too sophisticated.

Anderson, or an employee?

There are plenty of people who are geniuses in electronics, he reminded himself. Have Abrams re-cross data for tech and electronic backgrounds.

His in-dash beeped and he answered after seeing the coordinates. Fabray, Quinn ME, Morgue.

Her face swam on screen, head tilted. "Guess what I found." She said without preamble.

"I don't want to know what kind of shit you find in your line of work."

"Probably the same as you. But that's not it. I was glancing over the scanning's on Lopez's head and comparing them to Evan's. Guess what I found after further investigation on Lopez's after noticing something on Evan's?"

"Stop the dramatic effect and just tell me."

"No love, I swear. Faint burn marks around the ending puncture in the cranium."

"Burns?"

"Faintly, and only on the circumference of the rounded edge. I contacted the lab and weapons division, and there is one prototype currently on the market. Anderson Enterprises new laser and metal scalpel for medical. It's not the laser scalpel itself, just the outlines. And Anderson Enterprises guards its blueprints and draw ups closely."

"So only Anderson Enterprises has it," Kurt finished, stomach dropping.

"Unless someone has managed to recreate it with the bare minimum of details, which I doubt."

"Right. Thanks, Fabray."

"Anytime, Detective Sergeant." And she clicked off screen without further ado.

Kurt sat a moment, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, absorbing the new information.

He then blew out a breath, and ordered the in dash 'link to contact Blaine Anderson's direct line. The number had been written on the note with the coffee.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: A shorter chapter, but we're moving it along and filling the blanks. The good stuff is coming up, I promise. Just stick around. And maybe review. If you wanna. You know you do. Go on. Do it. **

**This is—by the way—the third time I have written this chapter. The first was perfect, and then my computer crashed. I re-wrote it—what I could remember—and the file got lost. This is the third, and I am so not happy with it, but it's as much as I could retrieve. If it's kind of sketchy, my apologies, but I tired to edit it as closely as possible to the original. **

**I'm not sure when the next update will be. Going away for the Holiday's and internet may or may not be accessible. So I may be updating next week, or it may have to wait until the New Year. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, mentions of extreme homophobia, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

"Mr. Anderson." Emma's voice came through the small speaker beneath his desk, and Blaine glanced at it, lifting a finger to the two men sitting in front of his desk. He set a finger down on the screen above the speaker.

"Yes, Emma?"

"Detective Sergeant Kurt Hummel is calling on your direct line. He'd like to speak with you?"

Despite himself, he felt his lips draw upwards slowly, and he ignored the looks being exchanged in front of him, instead turning his attention fully towards the speaker. "If you could give me a moment?"

"Yes, sir. I'll ask him to hold." He heard a soft click.

Blaine felt mild amusement, wondering if this had to do with the coffee he had sent to the Detective's apartment. Since he had seemed to enjoy a single cup so much, why not send him an entire bag? And finding his address was no problem, considering he owned the apartment complex.

With his tongue in his cheek, he turned back towards the two men, both whom sat straight and looked at him innocently, as if they weren't both just smirking at each other.

Blaine leaned back against his desk, arms folded across his chest as he raised an eyebrow at Wes and David.

"What?" Wes asked, eyes wide.

David tilted his head, face blank but for the slight wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, indicating the fact that he was holding back a smile. "Is there a problem?"

"What are you two smirking at?"

Wesley Montgomery and David Thompson were Blaine's best friends—lord help him. They had been since high school, and he was fairly certain he knew them pretty damn well by now. Maybe not as well as they knew each other, of course. But well enough to know when they were trying to hide something from him—unsuccessfully, might he add.

And right now they looked more amused than the situation called for, and he hadn't a clue why that was.

"You're imagining things, Blaine. Have you been abusing the pain-killers, young man?" Wes attempted to look stern, something out of place on his normally smiling face.

"Maybe he found one of his father's old bottles of scotch and it hasn't set well." David suggested.

Blaine knew the art of deflecting quite well—it was a skill he had learned at his father's knee. So he understood when the two men were attempting to do so, and felt his mouth quirk in amusement while they bantered possible situations back and forth. He cut in when Wes tossed out something about Kick and a male stripper. "As fun as this is, why don't you quit with the evasion and either tell me what you two find so amusing or get back to work so I can take this call?"

Wes had a sly smile on his face when he asked, "With Detective Sergeant Hummel? Eager, aren't you?"

David smothered a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh into his palm.

Blaine felt his eyebrows lift as he glanced between the two. "Just what aren't you saying?"

"Quite attractive guy, isn't he?" Wes batted his eyelashes and there was no mistaking David's snort.

Blaine felt his eyes narrow. "And how would you know this?"

"Well, when you asked me to get the security discs from the other day and send them to the Technology and Electronics Detective Division, I happened across your first meeting with the Detective Sergeant in the lobby," Wes smirked. "And I have to say Blaine; I've never seen you so, well. Smitten."

David couldn't control himself and burst out in laughing at the expression on Blaine's face. "No need to look offended, it was only for a moment, and only obvious to us. He is a looker, though, if you're into guys. Although, I'd never strike you as the type to fall after a cop."

Blaine felt the need to splutter, he really did, but knowing them that would just make it worse. Instead he prayed the tips of his ears weren't red—a dead giveaway—and looked at David coolly. "And what were you doing, viewing the security discs? That's not your division."

Wes grinned shamelessly. "When I saw it I had to show him. All in the name of friendship, of course. And it was after I sent the discs to TEDD, so no need to get your shorts in a bunch."

Blaine shook his head and just decided to let sit be, a lesson he had learned early on regarding Wes and David. "Go away. Get back to work before you're jobless. I don't pay to laze around and mock me."

David's expression immediately cleared, his smirk disappearing as he and Wes shared a look. "Actually, there was a reason we came up here, besides to visit our favorite boss and to gossip about your love life. One of the new laser scalpel prototypes is missing. And usually, I wouldn't be worried. It'd be easy to check with security and see who the last person in the lab was, since yesterday evening they were all accounted for, but after checking in with Wes we found something interesting."

Wes picked up immediately, removing a disc from his pocket and handing it over to Blaine. "The discs, from four twenty-five to four thirty-nine are laid over. Expertly done," he added in reluctant admiration. "I wouldn't've been able to even see the difference if the fail safe behind the back up hadn't indicated tampering. After viewing it, it became obvious, but during those fourteen minutes—where a slight switch at the beginning and the end can be seen after studying—it was switched."

Blaine took the disc, mulling over possibilities. The laser scalpel was a new item on the market—and a successful one if he had any say in it. It'd be cleaner than all other medical tools, and after conferring with medical specialists he was assured it'd be one of the main tools used in surgery in two months. Competitors weren't out of the question, but it was unlikely considering the security surrounding all of his labs. Which, he admitted, wouldn't be as much of an issue if the person had managed to get past the security cameras he and Wes had built. Wes was one of the most intelligent and savvy person he knew when it came to everything tech and security. Partly the reason he had hired him as division heads. "Any tampering with the entering site?" he questioned finally.

Wes shook his head, as did David, who answered. "One of the first things I checked after seeing the missing one. No forced entry. The computers insist a person entered at four thirty-two using a secondary pass and exited using one."

Well. That changed things. A secondary pass was one of the highest security passes in the company—excluding the primary passes all department heads had. Meaning someone would've had a higher position in David's Medical and Science Division.

David removed a disc himself and handed it to Blaine, explaining, "A list of people in my division with the clearance to enter that lab and with secondary passes. They'd have to have both at this stage. There are only four names, and two I know would cut off an arm before they'd remove anything from the labs. They were two of the people who helped create it. I've ran backgrounds, just in case," he added. "But I'm positive it wasn't either of them. The other two I'm not sure about. One had been working here for nearly two years and had just recently gained her secondary pass, while the other has been here for nine months."

Blaine glanced at him. "And they already have clearance and a secondary?"

David inclined his head. "According to his superiors he's one of the best they've ever had, and all have suggested him for them. He was cleared, and cleared by Schuester and your father for the project."

Blaine hummed noncommittally, sliding the discs on his desk. "Contact me if you hear anything—I mean anything—regarding the LS." David's hand 'link pinged, and Blaine nodded him the okay to check the message. He turned his attention to Wes. "On another note. You said you had sent the discs from yesterday to the Detective Division?"

He nodded, glancing at David who had begun to frown. "Yeah. Arthur Abrams, the e-man on your guys' case. Looked a bit wary when I mentioned full cooperation, and to pass the message along to your Detective Sergeant."

Blaine gave in and rolled his eyes. "He's not 'my' anything."

Wes smirked. "But you're looking to change that, aren't you? What with your little wooing gift and everything."

Before Blaine could demand how the hell he knew that, David looked up. "The guy who had been working in the division for the past eight hadn't checked in this morning. He hasn't missed a day since he began, and hadn't answered when one of the senior works tried to reach him. The girl—Ellen MacDonald—came in this morning and denies any claims toward stealing. There's nothing humming around about the LS, so I doubt it's fallen into any competitors' hands. It wouldn't have been kept as hush hush if it had."

Blaine nodded, concurring. There would've been something if anyone had managed to get their hands on one of his LS's. One of the drawbacks of most of the human race—nobody can resist gloating, even if it's just a little bit.

David stood, pocketing his 'link, and Wes followed. Blaine dipped his hand into his pocket, fingers rubbing over the smooth souvenir he had found on his floor yesterday. Absentmindedly, he removed it and shifted it in his hand much like one would do to a worry stone.

Wes took noticed and nodded his furrowed brow towards it. "What's with the button?"

Embarrassed, he clenched his fingers around the medium-sized button. He cleared his throat. "Fell off a coat." Which wasn't a lie. It just wasn't his coat.

David cast him an odd look, one which Blaine happily ignored.

"Are you okay?" Wes asked, any amusement gone, and concern lacing his voice. "I mean, your friend Santana, and all. When's the funeral?"

Because they were his best friends, Blaine let himself rub his forehead where the mild headache had been since he had heard of Santana's death. He flipped the button between his hands. "Yeah, it's okay. I'm okay. I'm worried about Britt. She has her other friends that she's staying with right now—Tina and Mike I think their names are. But her and the kids…" he glanced away and sighed. He laughed without amusement. "I have anything in the world at my fingertips yet nothing to give or do for a friend in pain. Anyway," he shook it off, seeing the worried glance passing between his best friends. "The funeral is the day after tomorrow."

David blinked in surprise. "So soon?"

"Yeah. Brittany wanted to get it over and done with. She's going back to Ohio." Blaine felt a mild ache when he said it, knowing he'd miss her and the kids very much, but also knowing it'd be best for her. "She needs to be with her parents, and needs help with the children."

Wes, the more demonstrative one, reached over and gripped Blaine's hand tightly over the button in his palm. He just held it for a moment and Blaine let that little comfort immerse itself for a moment. Wes pulled his hand back and David said, "Call us if you need anything. We'll go to the funeral with you if you need it—Britt likes us and she wouldn't argue. Or if you need a place to stay. That palace you call a home is too big for one person."

Blaine smiled slightly, nodding but knowing he wouldn't take him up on the offer, just like David knew Blaine wouldn't accept. It was just the way Blaine was. "Thanks." He stood, and shooed them out affectionately. "Now, go. It's been more than a moment, and Detective Hummel seems the type to be impatient."

Wes laughed and the two turned to go as Blaine lifted his business 'link, and flat blue eyes met his through the screen. Blaine tilted his head. "Detective Sergeant. How may I help you today?"

"What do you know about laser and metal medical scalpels?"

From the corner of his peripheral vision, Blaine saw Wes and David freeze from where they were about to exit his office. They turned and Blaine felt both pairs of eyes on him as he answered. "Quite a bit, considering my lab does create them. Do you view the medical section of the paper frequently, then?"

"The murder weapon that killed Santana Lopez and Sam Evans was a metal and laser scalpel. One that is only distributed by your company and one that only you have the prototype of."

Blaine felt his stomach drop at the mention of Santana then confusion settle in. "Sam Evans? Who's that?"

The Detective Sergeant raised a perfect eyebrow. "Do you view the screen frequently?"

Blaine felt impatience slide through him as his words were tossed back to him. "I haven't had the chance to turn it on, no." He replied coolly instead.

"Do you always work this late? It's almost eleven o'clock at night and you're still at your office."

"I'm quite aware." Blaine could see Wes' eyebrows steadily rising, but ignored him. "As it happens, I was about to head home after a meeting with two of my division heads. Is there an issue?"

"Are you free at the moment?"

Blaine nodded once. "I am. Am I being requested into another interview, Detective Sergeant?"

The other man's voice was just as cool, and just as professional, though Blaine could see a spark of something in those eyes that were steadily turning grey. "I am requesting your cooperation in an ongoing homicide investigation, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine didn't miss the usage of his last name, but didn't mention it. "I'll be accessible. Emma will have you sent straight up."

Blaine glared at the link when the other man clicked off, and Blaine turned hard eyes to David. "Talk to that girl. Inform me on your opinions—you're good at reading people and I trust your opinion. Find out everything you can on that other man—what's his name?"

David glanced at his 'link. "Scott. Scott Strollop."

Blaine nodded shortly. "Find him and report back to me." Then he remembered what time it was and cursed. "Actually, hold it off until tomorrow morning—"

"I'll do it tonight." David cut him off, staring him down steadily.

Blaine sighed. "Thanks."

David raised an eyebrow. "You even have to thank me?"

He laughed softly, and Wes raised a finger, looking contemplative. "Sam Evans. Where have I heard that name?"

David shrugged. "Seems like it could be pretty common."

"No," Wes shook his head. "No, I've heard it before… From someone. Evans. Damn. Maybe I'm just losing it." He shook his head, and then cast a pointed look in Blaine's direction. "Detective Sergeant Kurt Hummel sure has you knotted up. I've never seen you display your emotions so openly in front of someone besides me, David, or Emma before. What's the deal?"

Blaine shifted. "I don't know what you're talking about." Yes he did. And Wes was right. Though he'd met the man once, and was in his company for barely an hour earlier that day, there was something about Kurt Hummel and those damn eyes that had Blaine loosing his hard-learned cool. It was unsettling.

Wes cast him a knowing look, but only said, "Sure."

Blaine waved them off and they finally took leave of his office. He sent a request to Emma to inform her that Kurt Hummel would be returning and to please send him up immediately, before he circled his desk to his chair and slid back into it, lifting the dark button in his hands to eye level. He laughed softly. "Unsettling, indeed." And he slid the button back in his pocket while he waited for the Detective.

*.*

This was ridiculous, Kurt decided as the elevator rose slowly. As it stood, Anderson was currently at the top of his list. He was Kurt's primary suspect.

There was no reason to get all knotted up just because he was going to interview the suspect.

Kurt cursed and jammed his hands in his front pockets, feeling strangely unsettled, and not liking it one bit. As it was, he was blaming it on the energy pill.

The doors slid open smoothly, and Kurt found himself face to face with two men he vaguely recalled from Anderson's school records.

They were Anderson's age, if Kurt remembered. And were currently heading two of Anderson's divisions, though which ones, he couldn't quite put his finger on.

One of the men, the Asian with the tousled hair and the friendly face, blinked. Then, with a smile that Kurt found a little too warm for someone you had just met and who was about to interrogate their best friend, he stuck his hand out before the other man could stop him. "Well, hello Detective Sergeant. Wes Montgomery and this quiet guy is David Thompson. I take it you're heading in to see Blaine?"

Kurt shook his hand and cocked an eyebrow. "Which I'm sure you know, considering you don't seem at all surprised to see me, and knew me by sight."

With an amused smile, he pulled his hand back. "Caught me. Well, don't let us keep you, Detective Sergeant. I'm sure Blaine would be none too pleased."

The other man elbowed Wes discreetly enough that if Kurt had blinked, he would've missed it. "I'm sorry, Detective Sergeant, but we actually must be going, too. It was a pleasure to meet you. And if you need to speak with us, Blaine will surely give you our information."

Before Kurt could question the reasons behind needing to speak with them, they were stepping onto the elevator behind Kurt, the doors already closing. Kurt frowned slightly, and made his way back the entryway towards Pillsbury's desk.

She glanced up with a smile and gestured back with a hand. "He's open and ready to see you Detective Sergeant."

Kurt nodded his thanks and paused at the large doors into Anderson's office, rapping briskly, and opening it when an 'enter' was called out.

Anderson was already at the insta-chef, removing two cups of coffee that would've had Kurt salivating if he hadn't had more control. As it was, he could feel his mouth fill, but impatiently swallowed and waited in the doorway.

Anderson looked up, hazel eyes meeting his beneath his unruly black curls, and cocked an eyebrow. "Detective Sergeant. Have a seat. You look as if you're about to fall over." Which was true. The shadows that were under those stunning blue eyes earlier were even deeper, something he hadn't noticed when he had called on his 'link.

Blaine saw the slight annoyance flicker over the other man's face at Blaine's added comment, but he just sat and calmly sipped his own coffee, waiting. If Blaine's impression of this man were correct, he'd sit out of a matter of pride. And the only reason Blaine mentioned it was to see if he could rile the other man up, an urge that he had no clue why he'd had it. Blaine was just sorely tempted to rile Kurt Hummel.

As Blaine had expected, he sat, stiffly, and Blaine was amused to note his narrowed eyes. Wordlessly, Blaine slid the other mug of coffee towards him, watching in fascination as he struggled with himself, before he inclined his head and lifted the mug. He took a deep sip, and Blaine saw his eyes flutter.

Kurt put the cup down before he could embarrass himself further, and pushed it out of his range. Wordlessly, he removed his recorder, and folded his hands, waiting for Anderson to indicate when he was ready.

Kurt saw Anderson glance at his recorder with cool detachment, and he too set down his mug, leaning back carelessly, but keeping his eyes steady on Kurt, and he felt something jerk in his gut. Ignoring it, he tilted his head questioningly, and asked, "May I?"

Anderson gestured lazily with his hand, his sharp gaze never straying. "Please."

"Interview B with Anderson, Blaine, regarding case file 8256D, with Hummel, Detective Sergeant, Kurt in attendance. You're aware of your rights and obligations?"

"Quite."

"Your company produces scalpels."

"Among a many other things, but yes. Anderson Enterprises looks to further the medical and scientific field in any way we can, even if that's by providing the tools necessary."

"You've currently released details on a new laser and metal medical scalpel, the first and only on the market if I'm correct."

"You are, yes. The blueprints for the prototype, actually. Barely even that." He smiled, thin and sharp. "Keeping the competition on their toes, and everything."

"So you're saying it hasn't been released anywhere or to any facilities?"

"It has not been released to the public. All of the laser scalpels we're currently working on have only been seen by those employed by Anderson Enterprises." Which was true, if Blaine's hunch concerning the missing one was correct.

Kurt noticed the careful wording. "Is it possible to do grievous harm with this new tool?"

"Detective Sergeant, you could cause grievous harm with a rock, if you so chose. But yes. It is a metal blade with laser and burn capabilities, a tool aimed toward any surgical procedures for the cleanest and easily healed lines."

"Could you outline what it looks like?"

Anderson raised a dark brow. "The metal itself is about five inches long, point four millimeters in diameter. One end narrows down into a tip—think sharpened pencil—where the laser portion could be accessed. The other end forms into a thin rectangle where the grip is meant to be held. I could provide you with the blueprints, if you wish."

Kurt nodded, and Anderson cast him a calculating glance that left him uneasy. Kurt continued. "Could this puncture bone?"

"Certainly. It would require quite a bit of force, but a punch could crack bone, so it's not out of the question."

Kurt removed the image of Sam Evans, eyes open and wound facing the camera clearly, perfectly round and smooth, just like on Santana Lopez. He slid it across the table towards Anderson. "Could it do this?"

Anderson's eyes flickered with something—grief, anger, disgust, pain, he couldn't tell—before they turned cool and expressionless once more. "It could."

Kurt felt impatience rise in him, noticing how Anderson showed no recognition for Evans, and not knowing whether to be relieved or not. "What aren't you saying, Mr. Anderson?"

Anderson smirked, but without much meaning behind it. "Back to Mr. Anderson? What would you like to know, Detective Sergeant?" he asked before Kurt could comment on the 'Mr. Anderson'.

Kurt swore softly, and reached up to flick off the recorder, and leaned forward. "If you know something, anything that could have to do with this investigation, I need to know. You're holding back, Anderson."

"As are you, Detective Sergeant," Anderson stressed his title, leaning forward also. "You could have easily questioned me over the link regarding any medical tools. But you have some other reason to come here and question me, and it has to do with Sam Evans, if the way you showed me that picture was any indication."

Kurt didn't like the fact that this man—who he had met with twice, and had barely known for twelve hours—could read him so easily. "Maybe. What aren't you telling me?"

"Why don't you tell me what you're not telling me? Maybe if you came out and asked instead of tip toeing, I could give you the answer you're looking for." Anderson shot back.

"Did you know Sam Evans?"

Impatience flared in Anderson's eyes. "Detective Sergeant, I know quite a lot of people. But as far as I know, I have never met him, no. I don't have much business with law enforcement or the people in it," he added, with a pointed glance at Kurt's weapon, where his holster showed at his shoulder.

Kurt ignored the purposeful sting, and shot back. "So you're saying that you don't know and have never been acquainted with Samuel Evans?"

"For Christ's sake, no."

"You went to school with his older brother, at Dalton. Maybe for half a year."

Anderson cast him an incredulous glance. "And your point would be? Most of the boys who went to Dalton Academy are all over the world."

"And he is also close friends, almost family with Tina Cohen-Chang. Who," he added when surprised recognition showed, before Anderson quickly cleared it away. "As you know, is a very close friend to Brittany Pierce, and consequently, Santana Lopez."

Anderson was silent for a moment, and then spoke quietly. "So, your reasoning is not only did I kill one of my best friends, I also killed a man who was the younger brother of a former classmate I barely knew, who was by some remarkable chance close to by friends' friend."

"There's means, there's motive, and there's opportunity." Kurt swore again when Anderson gazed at him steadily. "No, damn it, I don't think you did. But you're not telling me everything and everything on paper aims at you clearly and pointedly."

"But you don't think so," Blaine said softly with a curious expression aimed at him.

Kurt swallowed, and said honestly, unable to look away from those eyes no matter how much he wanted to curse himself. "No. It's too clean. Too easy. And there's not enough emotion involved." Kurt shook his head when Anderson looked inquisitive. "But that's beside the point. It comes right back around to the fact that you're not telling me something important."

Anderson held his eyes for a long moment, and Kurt let him, hoping he'd read something that would help him to express what he wasn't saying. Finally, something shifted, and Anderson sighed, shoulders slumping slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "We have a certain team working on certain projects. The second in command—people who don't head the divisions—chooses who goes where. It's close knit, and security measures are high on whatever we work on, plenty of people wish to get anything on the inside regarding Anderson Enterprises. David is the head of the Medical and Science Tools Division, and he informed me that one of the scalpels was removed yesterday evening." Anderson lifted his eyes to meet Kurt's, as if he could sense Kurt tensing. "The only person who could get in and out of security with that amount of clearance was someone working on that project."

And that burned Blaine. The fact that someone who worked for him, who was trusted enough to be hand selected had turned around and betrayed his company and had done worse. "Wes—who heads Security in this building and other buildings I own in New York—viewed the security discs in that area, and the recordings were overlaid."

That explained what Thompson had meant when he told Kurt that if he needed to contact them then Bl—Anderson would give him the information. Because Kurt sensed that this was what Anderson wasn't saying, he nodded and lifted his hand to lay it back over his recorder, but not turning it on just yet. "Why was that so difficult?"

Anderson quirked one side of his mouth, though his eyes were serious. "Because you weren't telling me something."

"Investigations aren't a two-way street, Anderson."

"Blaine," he corrected once again. "And no, they aren't. You're correct." He held his eyes until Kurt felt he had to look away.

"You'll have to repeat that last part regarding the scalpel and security for the record." When he nodded, Kurt turned his recorder back on, and finished up the interview in minutes.

"Interview end." Kurt turned it back off. "I'd appreciate it if you would send the discs over to TEDD, and the information on those on that project."

The other man nodded, an amused glint in his eyes. "As I had previously told Detective Abrams, the New York Police Department has Anderson Enterprises' full cooperation."

Kurt barely resisted an eye roll, and it must've been more obvious than he thought, because Anderson chuckled, a rich and rolling laugh that did something not entirely unpleasant to Kurt's insides. He must've been more tired than he thought if he was being that apparent.

"I'd also appreciate if that cooperation would let me view the scalpel in person."

Kurt could tell that Anderson was restraining a smile. "Certainly. Tomorrow evening." As Kurt was about to protest, Anderson raised a finger, and Kurt stopped himself out of pure disbelief. "It's late, and my employees need to go home and rest. The only reason David and Wes are still here is because they're stubborn. I have a day full of meetings tomorrow, and," he added with a slight but obvious ache, "Brittany needs help with the funeral arrangements tomorrow afternoon. That way we have time free and you can get some rest tonight."

Kurt felt a scowl tug his lips, and Anderson laughed softly once again. Kurt ignored it and cast a longing glance towards his now-cold coffee. He glanced up when he felt eyes on him and Kurt had to swallow at the look he was receiving from Anderson.

"So I take it you received my little—ah—gift."

Kurt pursed his lips, trying to look annoyed, but feeling he failed miserably. "Yes. And how did you find my address?"

"I have my ways." Anderson laughed again, eyes lighting up when Kurt simply raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't that difficult, considering I happen to own your building."

Kurt felt like he could've groaned. He should've known. "For some reason, I'm not very surprised by that as I should be."

He stood and felt a mild apprehension when Anderson did the same. He walked Kurt out through his office and to the elevator doors. Pillsbury gave Anderson a pointed look, and Anderson either didn't notice, or he was ignoring it, because he gave no indication of seeing it.

Anderson reached past Kurt to press the button leading back down to the lobby, and Anderson was so close Kurt could smell his aftershave, and see the faint stubble on his jaw. Kurt pointedly looked at the wall above Anderson's head until he stepped back after pressing the button. But Kurt still felt like he was suffocating when Anderson reached over to fix his collar, fingers grazing just against his neck and lingering a moment. Anderson lifted his eyes to Kurt's and a small smile played around his lips when he muttered, "Tomorrow, Detective Sergeant."

Wanting to get some ground back, Kurt took a step away and into the elevator. He nodded, and spoke through his constricted throat. "I'll be by tomorrow evening, Mr. Anderson."

"Blaine," the other man corrected once more as the doors began to slide closed.

"Blaine," Kurt breathed softly when the slid shut all the way and the lift began to lower. He tipped his head back against the cool mirror and closed his eyes, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into now.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Longest chapter yet! Nearly ten thousand words—that's like the first five chapters of this put together to form one. **

**I'm feeling quite proud of myself. Which is slightly pathetic, but there you have it. I'm not proud. I'll admit to my pathetic-ness if it get's me happy readers and even happier reviews. **

**Hint. **

**On to the not so happy news, I desperately need a beta reader. Like, so desperately, that I don't know if I'll continue this story without one. I read it over to the best of my ability, but because I know what's going on, I don't really know where there are gaps or where it is that it isn't very understandable, and I don't think it's very fair to you readers if the story isn't up to par. **

**So, unless I find someone willing, I don't think I'll be continuing this.**

**But for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter. And I love, love, love me some reviews. **

**Hope everyone had a Happy Holiday, whatever you may celebrate. And if you don't celebrate anything at all, I hope you had a wonderful week. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: Homicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

Kurt was dreaming.

And really, he should've known better than to sleep without taking something to swipe away everything printed into his mind. But he stayed up for hours afterwards and finally gave into exhaustion around two o'clock. After being awake for more than forty hours, he wanted to try his hand at getting at least four hours.

But, hindsight was twenty-twenty.

It was bright. Sunlight was pouring in through the windows, all the blinds open and casting streams over his Mommy's hair as she tipped her head back and laughed. She was sitting on the floor, resting against his Daddy's legs. Kurt was laid over her lap as she lifted his shirt and tickled him, squirming and giggling, not really trying to get away.

Kurt didn't know what made his Dad get up, but he rested a large hand on Kurt's Mom's shoulder, and she abruptly stopped tickling him. Instead, she watched as he stood and left the room.

The next thing he knew, they were rushing upstairs, his mother holding him tightly to her chest, and her panicked breaths panting in his ear. She turned into Kurt's room, closing the door quickly and quietly, and knelt on the ground, pulling the drawers out from under his bed and ushering Kurt where they were. He was small for his age, and fit comfortably—it was a spot he used when they played hide and seek. She lowered the blankets and sheets to cover where the drawers were—where Kurt was.

There was the smallest of cracks, barely an inch where the sheet met the carpet. Kurt heard a loud thump from downstairs, and his Mommy let out a strangled sound, and Kurt could see her feet hurry to the closet on the other side of the room. She didn't go in; she waited, stood there until Kurt could hear his bedroom door open.

He could see her feet turn quickly towards the door, and Kurt could see another pair standing in the doorway. His mother let out another sound—this one wet sounding, and Kurt saw her knees hit the ground. The other pair of feet—heavily booted and slow in moving—walked over to her, and pause right in front of her.

"_Please. Oh, please, no."_

"_Where is he?"_

"_No. No."_

Kurt had his hands over his mouth, eyes wide, and biting down on his own skin. Mommy said he had to hush. Mommy said he couldn't make a sound.

"_Tell me. I can let you go, if you tell me where he is."_

The man's voice was weird. It sounded like the robots on those vids his Daddy liked to watch. It was scary and flat.

His Mama didn't say anything, and Kurt saw her fall backwards, landing on her elbows. Kurt really didn't mean to, he really didn't, but he took a short breath when he saw blood on her hands. Kurt saw the man's feet turn—right towards him.

"_No!"_

He didn't see his Mommy anymore. She wasn't on the ground, and he couldn't even see her feet. But the man stumbled, and Kurt heard him grunt, and the table next to his bed tipped over and crashed. He heard his Mommy growl and the man grunted again and Kurt had to help his Mommy but he _couldn't move. _

There was another crash, and Kurt heard his Mom gasp. The man's feet were turned towards one of his walls, and Kurt saw his Mama's bare feet slide down slowly. They weren't touching the floor, they were dangling just above it, and Kurt wanted to scream and go help his Mommy but he promised. He promised he wouldn't move.

Her feet touched the ground, then she slid all the way down, and Kurt was crying because why wouldn't she get back up? Why wasn't Mommy getting back up?

Her eyes were open, staring up at the bad man, but she didn't look like she was really seeing him.

Kurt smelled the blood before he saw it.

Kurt couldn't hold in his gasps and whimpers anymore. His Mommy was just lying there, and there was _blood _all over her, and where was his Daddy? He needed to stop the scary man from hurting Mommy.

But Mommy didn't get back up, and his Daddy never came back. The man's feet turned back towards Kurt, and he walked forward without anything stopping him. Kurt tried to shrink back, and he wanted to close his eyes, but they were wide and wouldn't work right.

His Mommy was dead. She was, wasn't she? His Daddy must be too, 'cause he'd never let anyone hurt Kurt and his Mommy if he wasn't. And there was the scary man, and he was going to _kill _Kurt too.

The man stopped right in front of Kurt and Kurt could hear him _laugh _right before he reached down. He _laughed _while his Mommy was behind him, bleeding, and he hurt his daddy, and Kurt felt something in him _snap. _

The gloved hand opened the drawer under the bed that Kurt was in.

*.*

Kurt shot up in his bed, gasping with sweat covering every inch of him. He kicked off the sheets tangled around his legs, and flipped them over the side of the bed so he could lower his head between his knees.

Fuck. He shoved his hands in his hair, gripping tightly as he tried to breathe normally.

In through his nose, and out through his mouth. In, out. In…Out…In…Out…

He opened his eyes slowly, and leaned back, head tilted towards the ceiling. He blew out a breath, and glanced down at his hands from where they were gripping his knees, knuckles white and drawing blood from where they dug into his skin.

At least they weren't shaking anymore, he thought wryly.

He paused, brow furrowed, trying not to think of his dream. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

It got clearer as time went on. Especially lately.

And it got further each time.

Ten, even six years ago, he couldn't recall a single thing from that night. He couldn't tell you that the sun was shining, couldn't tell you what his Mother's laugh sounded like, and certainly couldn't recall how the hell his parents died.

But lately—he could remember up to the point where the hand was about to open the drawer. He could remember as much as anyone before he was eight, but that night was a complete blank.

Not so much, anymore.

He shook it off, and stood clad only in his boxers. He padded over to the bathroom, needing to wash the layer of grime off his skin, and needing to feel the water as hot as he could get, pounding in his aching muscles.

"Jets on, ninety-two degrees." He ordered, stepping onto the cool tile, and sighed, long and deep, when the water turned on in a billow of steam.

He laid his head on the tile and breathe din the blanket of heat, thinking of a woman and man he barely knew growing up, and the man and woman he stood for now.

*.*

It was six-twenty when he sat in front of his home unit, already through the tenant listings and witness statements of both crime scenes.

And he was still with nothing besides the murder weapon, a suspect who he couldn't fit, and two dead bodies.

He glanced over as his home 'link beeped, and he glanced at the screen, eyebrows rising involuntarily when he saw the name on the screen.

"Early day, Anderson?"

He saw the other man raise an eyebrow, already looking perfectly put-together and well groomed even this early. Kurt didn't even bother to feel self-conscious about his finger-combed hair, and black t-shirt. "As a matter of fact. I was actually just going to leave you a message informing you that I've sent the security discs and background information to your home unit."

Kurt frowned. "How did you—"

"I have my ways, remember?" Anderson laughed, and eyes twinkling. "And I thought we agreed that my name was Blaine?"

"Whoops, you're right. Sorry," Kurt raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "Anderson."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Are you always this stubborn?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"I'm glad to see it's just not concerning me. I don't want to keep you, as I said I just wanted to tell you I sent the info. I didn't want to wake you." Blaine—Anderson, damn it, cast him an inquisitive look.

"I was already up."

Bl—Anderson gazed at him steadily, and Kurt tried not to squirm. This guy would be ace in the box, he thought sourly. It's like he can see right through me. But he held his gaze head on, and Blai—_Anderson_ nodded once. At what, Kurt wasn't sure but he tried not to let it bother him.

"Hmm."

Kurt scowled, feigning irritation, and mildly concerned that he had to feign it. "Is that all you need?"

Not bothered by Kurt's—fake—scowl, the other man smiled. "More than, considering I got to see your face first thing this morning. A perfect way to start the day. See you this evening, Detective Sergeant." And with that unnerving answer, he clicked off.

Kurt blinked, staring at his 'link, deciding he definitely needed another cup of coffee before retrieving the information on his desk comp.

He brought up the information and backgrounds, sipping his coffee.

Angela Marcobs, fifty-three, employed by Anderson Enterprises for twelve years. Out of town on night of murder and night weapon stolen, confirmed.

Calvin Marcobs, fifty-six, Angela Marcob's husband, also Employed by Anderson Enterprises, alibi confirmed.

Kurt also took into account the notes written by both Blaine—goddamn it, Anderson—and David, not feeling anything on those alibied.

He moved on to the two newest additions, and paused on Scott Strollop, employed at Anderson Enterprises for nine months. According to the records, he hasn't been into the office since the LS was discovered missing.

"Pop," Kurt said, bringing up his personal file.

Decent looking, Kurt had to admit. But not someone you'd look twice at. Mousy blonde hair, light brown eyes, a polite smile, and unremarkable features. Not a hardship to look at, but not one that'd stand out.

But, Kurt reminded himself, features of any kind can be changed as easily as clothes now, if you knew how. And if the killings were professional as Kurt suspected, he would certainly know how to do so.

As can surface records. He sent the info to Abrams, requesting a deep search.

His address was located in an apartment two blocks away from the building that housed the Medical and Science labs. And, after a quick question put into his comp, the building was also owned by Anderson Enterprises. He located the contact information for the manager of those apartments, and quickly put in a call.

A woman of about fifty answered, as pressed and crisp as Anderson was, eyes alert and smile polite. "Hello. May I help you?"

"Cecile Johnson?"

"Yes."

"I'm Detective Sergeant Hummel, with the NYPD. I believe one of your tenants has to do with my investigation."

"Oh, yes, Detective Sergeant, my apologies. Mr. Anderson informed me you may be trying to reach me."

Kurt pushed away the mild irritation. "Then I assume he's contacted you?"

"Yes, about Mr. Preston. As I told him, there is nothing significant about him. He's always paid his rent on time and has caused no disturbances, and there are no issues with his neighbors. Few haven't even seen him much, nor do they know much about him. From what I've gathered he's a quiet and plain man, and nobody has taken much notice of him."

"Has anybody seen him within the last forty-eight hours?"

"No. He hasn't been in the building. Mr. Anderson assured me he'd have the security discs sent to your work unit."

I'll bet he has, Kurt thought. "Thank you. I may need to contact you further."

"Anytime, Detective Sergeant. Mr. Anderson informed me that I was to cooperate with you and your investigation in any way possible."

Kurt ended the conversation, and hummed. He glanced at the clock, wondering if it was too early to contact New York's and the NYPD's top criminal profiler. He wanted her opinion, to bounce it off of her and see if his instincts were leading him down the right path.

She wouldn't mind, he knew. But he still felt awkward contacting her before business hours. She'd ask him how he was doing personally, and regarding the nightmares, and especially after the memory from last night, he had no urge to talk about it.

He'd rather go against her guard dog receptionist. Now _she _would be in early. Steeling himself, he contacted Shelby Corcoran's office, ready to take on her frightening receptionist.

Ten minutes after hackling and bargaining, he achieved five minutes in between appointments for the small price of selling his soul to the she-devil.

He set his link down and turned back to his murder board where Sam Evan's picture was taped next to Santana Lopez's.

Same cause of death.

Same murder weapon.

Probability leaning in the direction of same murderer at ninety-eight point eight percent.

Both friends of Tina Cohen-Chang, who her hand her husband have already been knocked down to the bottom of the list, right above Brittany Pierce.

Santana knew Blaine, who went to school with Sam's older brother.

Kurt shook his head, standing. It just wasn't close enough. It didn't fit, and didn't sit well.

But it could just be your personal feelings getting in the way, a voice in his mind niggled.

No. It was his gut talking, and he knew that for certain. It wasn't his feelings. It was his cop's instinct telling him that Anderson didn't fit.

But Blaine Anderson was a link. He just wasn't the murderer. But he connected somehow. He was in the middle of this investigation, and Kurt had a sinking feeling that he'd remain there.

Kurt had enough pride to admit that maybe the sinking feeling was personal. But he wasn't going to think too much on that.

The both worked for the law. Another link?

But, no, Kurt decided. That didn't feel right, either. But best not to rule it out.

Damn it, he needed Shelby's profile.

But for now, he turned when he heard his comp signal that the image he was waiting for was printed.

He lifted Scott Strollop's picture, and pinned it in the upper corner.

"If that is your name," he said. "I'm not betting on it."

'Scott Strollop' back to Anderson Enterprises, and back to Blaine Anderson.

And Kurt was right back where he started. Wondering what he was missing.

*.*

"Anytime, Detective. Anytime." Wes said, smiling slightly, clicking off his work unit on his conversation with Detective Artie Abrams.

He glanced up to where David was leaning in his doorway. "Dunno how Blaine does it."

"And just what is it you're doing?"

Wes ignored the little prick of guilt at the base of his spine, and hunched his shoulders, ignoring David's suspicious gaze. "Well… You know how he is. Wanting to be in the middle of things, insisting he must be in the know constantly… And if I didn't do it, he'd just do it himself, and be more likely to get caught, and that would open a whole can of worms that we really can't handle right now—"

"Wesley. What did you do?"

Wes sighed and finally turned to face the other man. "I may, or may not have—kind of. Well. I don't really see what it matters, considering—"

"Wes. Spit it out."

"I hacked into the NYPD database," he burst out. Seeing David's expression—and never a good one for Wes to be on the receiving end of—he added, "Blaine made me do it!"

David pushed off the door jam, and closed his door quietly, and Wes felt his eyes widen in slight fear. "You did what?"

"Well… I mean, you'd want to also, wouldn't you? If you were being framed for murder? 'Cause let's face it, David, we all know that's what's happening. And I'd have done it even if he hadn't told me to." He felt his eyes widen even further as he realized what he said, and then hurriedly added, "I'd do the same for you, though. And well,"

"You're Blaine's head of security. You're the boss of every security head that is stationed in all the building's Blaine owns in New York. And you hacked into the New York Police Department's computers. You were just talking to Detective Abrams. Isn't that the one who is working with tech and electronics' on Hummel's investigation?"

"You've been doing your own backgrounds. But yes," Wes said quickly. "He is. And somehow—I'm really not sure how—when Blaine sent him the information on the people who are on the LS project, he sent a little bug through their electronics—they were talking on their office comps—and into the Technology and Electronic Detective Department's computer main frame. I don't know how, but it wasn't noticed."

David had narrowed his eyes, and turned on his heel. "I know how he did."

"Hey," Wes called, feeling wary and slightly concerned for his other friend. "Don't tell him I told you."

*.*

"What the fuck are you doing here, Blaine?"

Blaine turned around, raising his eyebrows at David who had just burst in on one of his hologram conferences. He turned back to the interested spectators. "Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. There's something I must handle. We'll continue this Friday afternoon, I'm afraid my schedule is full tomorrow. Emma will send you any information you may need." He nodded to Emma who stood from where she was taking notes, and rushed to shut off his unit, and the images disappeared.

He turned back to David who had his hands in his pockets. "I see Wes told you."

"Weren't you trying to prove you're innocent? What do you think stealing information from the NYPD is going to get you?"

Blaine made his way over to calmly shut his door, seeing Emma sitting at her desk who was pointedly not listening. She really was a gem. "Sit down, David."

"Damn it, Blaine," David snapped. "Is this what you're doing now? Using our prototype bugs on the police? Stealing? I thought you weren't going to be like your father. Isn't that what you said when you took the reigns?"

Blaine leant back against his desk, eyes cool. "Are you finished?"

David blew out a breath, glaring. "For now."

"Well, for one, it's not stealing. I'd find out sooner or later, why delay the inevitable?" he smiled winningly when David swore. "And if you'd have asked instead of bursting in here yelling—quite dramatically, might I add , Wes would be proud—I could've explained my reasoning to you."

"You're reasoning is faulty at best." But slightly cooler now, David sat when Blaine gestured to a chair.

"Most times, yes. That's what you're for, isn't it? Anyway. Something is going on here—with Kurt's investigation. It doesn't sit well and not only because I'm being framed and one of my close friends was murdered, and because something was stolen from our grasp."

"Kurt now, is it?" David questioned.

Blaine smiled, slow and slightly feral. "Until I irritate him enough to call me by my first name."

"Then will you call him Detective Sergeant again?"

"Of course not." At David's reluctant laugh, Blaine continued. "The NYPD doesn't have nearly the resources at their fingertips that we do. So, out of the goodness of my heart, I offered Detective Abrams higher equipment in trade for information. Without him knowing of the trade, but that's just splitting hairs."

David shook his head again. "What are you looking for Blaine?"

"Answers. Wes has already made headway that would've taken Abrams hours—not because he doesn't know how to work his e-stuff, but because Wes has better equipment and he's somewhat of a genius."

"How so?"

Blaine gestured for him to take a look at his computer. On it, he pulled up the surveillance discs from his own building the night the laser scalpel went missing. He held up a finger when David made a noise. On the screen, where before it was a blank hallway, where the discs had been tampered with to remove those minutes, Scott Strollop strolled down the hallway, over to the door, entered, and came back out in two minutes. He then strode away, and the screen went black.

"How?"

"He left a trace," Blaine murmured. "A small one, so miniscule Abrams had passed over it. We'd had these discs, of course, and Wes went back over them. Preston had edited the discs manually, and oddly it worked in our favor. Wes just doubled back on his efforts and stripped out the image."

"But why hack into the NYPD data base?"

"So we could do the same to the surveillance where Sam Evans was killed. According to Abrams' case file, the MO was the same concerning those discs. One minute Evan's was alive, the next he was dead."

David looked at the blank screen for a long moment before looking back up at Blaine. "It won't mean anything. You know they can't use anything you give them, and if you do then you'll get in huge trouble."

Blaine shook his head and shot him a smile. "You really have no faith in Wes and I. Wes is currently reconstructing the vid from Evan's apartment. Only he's going to deconstruct it once again after getting the image of Preston and keeping our own file of it. Only when he deconstructs it, he's going to leave a slightly larger echo, one that Abrams will notice. If he can live up to his rep, he can do the same thing Wes had, I'm sure he'd find it at some point as it was, but this saves time."

"And you get to stay on top of every movement," David added knowingly.

Blaine sighed, and shoved his hands in his front pockets, glancing away from David's penetrating gaze. "You know me. I can't just sit here and do nothing. We bury Santana tomorrow, and that cop's funeral is directly after. And it has something to do with me, or at least my company." Blaine met David's eyes. "What would you do in my place?"

David looked away first, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "The same. But, Christ, Blaine, you could've told me before you used our bug. You didn't even know if it would work, if you'd get caught, or if SafeGuard's all Seeing Eye caught you. Then you'd really be in for it."

Blaine shrugged, knowing the truth behind all of it, but what was done was done. "What's life without a little risk? And if I had told you, you'd have tried to talk me out of it. Then I'd have to go behind your back, and you'd turn into a raving bitch when you found out."

"I'm just going to ignore you said that for your own sake," David said, raising an eyebrow at him.

Blaine shrugged again. "Okay. We done with the lecture? I do have work to do."

David looked faintly apologetic. "Sorry about busting in like that."

Blaine smirked. "Actually, it works in my favor. We're negotiating my takeover of their company, and their blowing smoke out of their asses, trying to push it off. I'll have it by the end of the week, but hopefully this will burn their pride that I'd rather deal with someone rudely bursting in my office instead of talk in circles in a meeting with them"

David raised an eyebrow. "You're in an awful good mood today."

Blaine thought of Kurt Hummel, steely eyed and the shadows under and in his eyes, his hair sticking up in tufts, the smile he tried to restrain, and the cup of coffee at his elbow that Blaine knew was from him. Instead, he smiled vaguely. "I had a good morning."

"You know what; I'm not even going to ask." David stood, laughing and shaking his head.

Blaine hummed noncommittally. "Suit yourself. If I think about doing anything else illegal, I'll let you know." He glanced down at his link when it buzzed, and couldn't restrain a groan.

"Who's that?"

"Will," Blaine explained. "I have to take this."

David gave him another of his sympathetic looks. "Have you told him you want him to step down, yet?"

Blaine snorted. "You think he'd still be talking to me, otherwise? No. Haven't had the time, what with Father's death, asserting myself as the new CEO, now this…"

David offered him a small smile before he turned to leave. "Good luck."

"Yeah," Blaine sighed, just before answering the call. "I'm gonna need it."

*.*

Kurt was in a much better mood after his fourth cup of coffee, and decided to swing by central before heading over to Shelby's office.

Walking into the pen, he narrowed his eyes. "What is this?"

All cops currently moving stopped, and turned to face him with guilty eyes. Kurt caught Puck's gaze as he was trying to wipe chocolate frosting off his face. Kurt clearly saw him gulp and hide his sticky fingers behind his back.

He cast an icy stare over everyone. "Shouldn't you be working instead of, oh I don't know, stuffing your faces? And where the hell did you get those?"

All the officers returned to their consoles, and Puckerman was the only one standing. Kurt strode toward him, and paused until they were nearly nose to nose

"Where'd you get the cupcake, Detective?"

"Cupcake?" Puck would've been a lot more convincing if his mouth weren't full.

Kurt cast him a flat look, interrogator to suspect. And wordlessly, Puck pointed to Sylvester's office. Kurt kept his eyes on Puck until he turned around, and then made his way to the door, already knowing who was waiting on the other side.

And sure enough, Mercedes Jones sat in one of Sylvester's guest chairs, her cameraman leaning against a wall.

When it came to reporters, Jones was one that Kurt could tolerate. Mostly. It wasn't just ratings to her—not completely, anyway—it was getting the story out there.

She was pretty much the only reporter he could stand, crime beat or otherwise.

Didn't mean he'd give her a story just because she asked for it, though.

She turned when he entered, offering him a feline smile. "Detective Sergeant."

He raised an eyebrow and cast a glance at Sylvester, who was looking amused. "Jones. Get lost on your way to work?"

"Nope. Actually," she cast a side-long glance at Sylvester. "I was hoping to get a statement regarding your case currently. Santana Lopez and Sam Evans. Are they linked?"

Because Kurt knew she had her recorder on, and that he wasn't going to get out of this completely, he said nothing instead of swearing like he wished.

"Have you made any headway towards finding the murderer? Or murderers, if they aren't connected."

"We're pursuing any and all leads."

"Do you have a statement?"

"The investigation is currently ongoing, and we're using any and all resources the department has at its disposal."

"Blaine Anderson," she smiled, sharp. "I've heard his name come up a time or two. His buildings in both places, a close friend of District Attorney Lopez's. Are you investigating him?"

"No comment." At least they had nothing on the laser scalpel.

Jones pursed her lips, though she didn't look particularly disappointed, and switched her record off and waved her man out. "I saved you a cupcake." She held it out.

Kurt cast it a glance and raised a brow in her direction. "Bribing an officer, Jones?"

"Of course not, Detective Sergeant. That would be illegal."

Kurt rolled his eyes and took the damn cupcake. The chocolate was calling his name. He gave her a narrow eyed stare. "Just because I'm taking your pastry offering doesn't mean I'm giving you anything."

He turned on his heel, biting into the cupcake as he left Sylvester's office. He heard Jones sigh and the clatter of her heels following him to his station.

He sat down but didn't turn on the screen yet, instead swiping a finger across the top of the cupcake and sticking it in his mouth, ignoring the look he was receiving form Puckerman that clearly said 'hypocrite'.

He barely glanced up as Jones popped a hip on his desk. "Hummel."

He took another bite.

"Hummel." She poked him in the shoulder. He glanced at her but said nothing.

"Oh, come on." She sighed heavily. "Fine, I know what you want. Off the record."

Kurt set the cupcake down on his desk and gave the stink eye to anyone who looked twice at it. He finally turned to her. "Did you say something?"

"Jeez, do we have to do this every time? Off the record, I said."

He tilted his head at her, considering. "You have sources. Ways of getting information. All through completely legal means, of course."

She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, smoothing down the slim skirt of her maroon suit. "Of course."

"I need you to find out everything you can about someone."

"And why can't you do that using department means?"

"I have a hunch about something. And it's better safe than sorry in my book."

"I want an interview when the case breaks."

Kurt scowled. But because he knew her, and he knew that she'd do whatever she needed as long as she got that damn interview, he gave in. "Fine."

She smiled again, slyly and tilted her head slowly. "Now, on another track. What's Anderson's deal? Heard you've been by to see him a couple times, and word is he's got something to do with it."

"Switching beats, Jones? Going for Gossip?"

"Oh honey, anything involving Anderson is news. And not just because he's the single youngest, richest, and powerful CEO on planet. You've seen the man. A bit short for my tastes, but he's sex on short legs."

He'd kind of already noticed, but he rolled his eyes for show. "Go away. Get your hormones out of here; I have a murder to solve."

"Hormones will rise everywhere when Blaine Anderson comes into the equation. Weren't you going to give me that name?"

He held his hand out and waited until she placed her hand 'link in his palm. He entered what basic information he knew on who he wanted her to search, and handed it back.

She looked at the screen curiously, and her eyes widened. "Isn't this—"

"Get it done, Jones. Now beat it." He cast a significant glance around the crowded room, and she nodded, signaling her camera man and already on her 'link on her way out.

Kurt turned back to his cupcake, glancing at the time and deciding he should be on his way to see Shelby. He signaled Puck on his way out, and he fell into step beside him.

"Stop pouting, Puckerman."

"Didn't even get to finish my cupcake," he mumbled.

"Christ," Kurt rolled his eyes and shoved the rest of his cupcake at him. "Here."

The other man immediately brightened and started munching away. "Mmm. Jones sure knows how to bribe a cop."

Kurt snorted. "What else did you expect? Did you find anything on Evans?"

Puck swallowed, expression turning serious. "No. I did the full back like you asked. There's nothing. He's clean as a whistle. I even got into the IAA files on him—don't ask, you don't want to know, and if I end up in prison for ten to twenty, I don't want you to be an accomplice. But they really need to update their security."

Kurt shook his head, feeling a headache forming already. "Continue."

"Right. But they didn't have anything on him either. I mean nothing. He wasn't even a blip on their radar. He was a kid who had just gotten out of the academy, who wanted to make detective."

Kurt nodded, already figuring that'd be the case. But like he had told Jones; better safe than sorry. "Anything else?"

"Well," Kurt glanced at him when he paused, and Kurt saw him biting his lip. A very un-Puckerman like gesture.

"Well, what?"

"I was in Abrams file. You know, checking how he was doing on the electronic front. He gave me permission," he added. "Since you said he's the only TEDD detective on this he says he'd be thrilled to have my assistance. And it's about the security discs. On the LS and Evans' apartment."

Kurt frowned, stepping onto the glide instead of the lift, figuring they'd need the added time. "What about them?"

"Well, you know how they were swiped and then laid over from the previous minutes, to make our guy all ghost like?" Kurt nodded. "Well, every time you edit something, it leaves behind an echo, a, ah, trace, if you will. Well, I was up all night trying to find the damn thing, and I just couldn't find it. Went back in this morning and there it was. Clear as day."

"Well, what's the problem? Maybe you just needed to rest your eyes."

"Yeah, maybe. But it just seems—"

"Hey!"

Kurt heard man yell, and his eyes automatically found the burly guy in cuffs slamming an officer into a wall, knocking him unconscious. The guy who yelled removed his stunner, and the burly guy brought his fists up hard, straight into the man's jaw.

Kurt swore and leapt over the side of the glide, hearing Puck's rushing footsteps behind him. Burly guy moved quickly for someone who had to be at least two eighty, and turned right into Kurt's raised knee, directly impacting with his stomach.

He let out a muffled 'Oof', and Kurt brought his elbow up then down to slam into the back of his neck from where he was keeled over. The guy dropped to his knees, and before Kurt could tell what was happening, the guy let out a bellow and shot up, elbows slamming Kurt in the cheekbone as he rammed into him, sending Kurt flying.

He landed hard against a wall, and rolled over before the guy could stomp one of his huge feet on his ribs. He rolled over into a crouch quickly. "Fuck this," he pulled out his weapon and shot a low stun at the guy. And while he was distracted with that, Kurt slammed his fist into the guys face without pulling the punch.

The guy went down, hard, clutching his bleeding nose. The two officers who were supposed to be detaining him rushed over and out of breath. Puck was already slapping restraints onto the guys' ankles.

"Detective Sergeant," one of the guys panted, a black eye already forming. "Sir, I don't know how he got—"

"Save it," Kurt snapped, his cheek and head throbbing. His ankle felt twisted too, and he rolled it, grimacing. "Don't let it happen again. For fuck's sake, there are two of you. If you can't handle him then call in someone else."

The officer nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

Kurt rolled his eyes as another officer came to help. He turned away, grumbling. Puck came back up beside him. "You're limping."

"Yes, I know."

Puck shrugged. "Hell of a morning."

"A day in the freaking life," Kurt said dryly.

Puck laughed. "Where you heading now?"

"Shelby's. I want to see her take on the murderers profile, see if I can't get some weight in to cross off my suspect list."

"Like?"

"Brittany Pierce, Tina and Mike Chang, Dave Karofsky, Brittany's parents, Sam's parents—"

"Blaine Anderson." Puck nodded. "Going with your gut too?"

Kurt sighed; he told himself it was in annoyance though it probably came off sounding like relief. "You too?"

"Yeah. Just seems too simple. Too clean cut. Wrapped up in a pretty bow just for us and the Prosecutor."

He thought of the LS and Kurt couldn't help but agree.

"But from what I've heard, and read in your files—don't give me that look—it just doesn't fit. Maybe I'd need to meet him to get a real feel, but he seems like the guy to use more emotion if he were to kill. Lopez and Evan's were emotionless—cool, and calculated. Lopez's was staged to look like a heat type of thing, but it wasn't, and you could tell."

Kurt nodded, his mind and stomach easing somewhat to know it wasn't just him who thought so. "I want you to see if you can find anything on Scott Strollop."

Puck frowned. "Who's that? The guy who stole the murder weapon?"

Kurt nodded. "That's where I'm leaning. But don't bet on it being his real name. I've got a feeling it's a cover, and all you're going to find is smoke. Just look and see if you can find something though, a—"

"An echo?" Puck suggested.

"Yeah," Kurt nodded. "An echo."

*.*

By the time Kurt got to Shelby's office, he resigned himself to the fact that he'd probably have to take a pain blocker for his cheekbone and the lump on the back of his head that exacerbated his headache.

He walked past her receptionist—ignoring the demon glare quite happily, though he had an urge to stick his tongue out at her—and into Shelby's open office.

He could never get over how—homey, the place felt. He was uncomfortable around shrinks as a general rule, and especially where they worked, but something about this warm place made him feel at ease.

He supposed that was the point Shelby was getting at.

The woman herself was someone you just wanted to be around. Warm, open, maternal, and the best profiler in New York and an invaluable asset to the NYPD. If she went into a private practice she could make triple than what she did currently.

She also saw through Kurt like no one else, and constantly left him feeling off balance.

She was already offering him a warm smile when he walked in, which faded when she saw the bruise Kurt could feel forming on his cheek.

She was standing, probably getting them that health juice she adored so much, but she ignored it to walk over to him, tilting her own head to get a better look.

"Every time you come in here there's one bruise or another," she said.

"All part of the job," he said, resisting the urge to take a step back and out from under her concerned gaze.

Since she could read him so well, she dropped her hand from where it was on his shoulder and stepped back. She didn't seem put off; instead she was smiling and gesturing to a seat. "Sit down, I'll get us juice. Unless you'd rather tea?"

He shook his head, sitting. "Juice is fine." He didn't need anymore caffeine at the moment—he still felt wired from the vast buckets of coffee he'd felt he ingested this morning.

She brought him his juice and he took a sip out of courtesy, feeling the sweet peach flavoring on his tongue. She sat across from him, and gazed over her own cup.

After setting it aside, she stated, "You haven't been sleeping."

"This isn't about me. I came to discuss the case."

"Every case is about you, Kurt. Your well-being and state of mind affects the case."

His eyes hardened. "Are you going to take me off of this then?"

"No," she said calmly. "But I worry about you."

And if that wasn't the right button to push, he didn't know what was. He clenched his teeth slightly. "I've slept about three hours last night."

"Nightmares?"

"They come and go."

"Still the same, then."

"Until the drawer is about to be opened." Nothing else. Never anything else until he woke up in the hospital, scared, hurt, alone and not knowing where his parents were.

"You can take the department approved sleep aids."

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she smiled softly. "Right. Silly suggestion. But I'm serious. You're coming from a very difficult case straight into another one—one that involves your two best friends. Indirectly," she added when he was opening his mouth to correct her. "But it's still a stress considering they knew who was murdered."

"I can handle it."

"Yes," she said, sighing. "You can. But not without hurting yourself. At least think about taking an aid, getting six down."

"I have two DBs on ice, a DA and a cop. I don't have time."

"Fine," she raised her hands in defeat. "I'll drop it for now."

She stood to retrieve a folder that was sitting on her desk. "I overlooked your case."

"Impressions?"

"We'll start with the killings. Santana Lopez's was exactly what you put in your report—staged, cool, collected, calculated, and trying to be something it wasn't. The extra wounds, the time he—we'll say 'played with her', it was all unnecessary, an added measure that meant nothing. Sam Evans's on the other hand, is what it was. Impersonal, detached."

"Professional?"

"Yes, I'd say it was. Especially when adding in the security measurements and the way he is practically invisible."

"You say 'he'."

"Oh yes. Santana Lopez was moved and dumped. As much as we woman try to argue otherwise, that takes considerable strength, especially dead weight, and it feels male. There's an underlying arrogance and pride in his work that can be either sex, but the murder, the technology, and your additions regarding this 'Scott Strollop.'"

"You believe he's the one."

"I believe he's the one who directly killed them, yes. The name isn't real, of course. It's a smoke screen. But yes."

"I've cleared the wife and close friends on both. Lopez's parents I haven't managed to get a hold of yet, so we'll see there. I may have to fly out to Ohio, considering I don't think they'll be at the funeral."

Shelby crossed her ankles. "They live in Lima."

"They do."

"Small world."

"Smaller than most think."

She leaned forward and placed a warm hand on his knee. "Is it going to be a problem for you? You don't have to go. You can call them here."

"I can handle it," Kurt repeated. "And it'll knock them off guard if the city cop fly's out there just to talk to them. If they did the hiring, it'll knock them a bit off balance."

"What's the story there? There's sealeds."

"There are. I'll talk to Brittany if I have to, but I really want to put that off. It'll be hard enough that I'm going to be at the funeral tomorrow."

"I understand. Have you gotten a warrant for them yet?"

"Not yet, no. I put in a word to Abrams to try and get the PA to give it a nudge. It's a toss up. They'll open them because it's a cop and the DA, or they won't because it's a cop and a DA, and it may leak."

"Either way, you need to know."

"Yeah. There may be means there, or there may be nothing. Something could've happened to make one of the parents hold a grudge—could've just been the way she acted when she was younger."

"But to hold that grudge for fifteen years?"

"It's happened before," Kurt said. "You and I both know it. But yeah, it's something I need to know."

"Blaine Anderson." Shelby said, and saw something switch in Kurt's eyes. What's going on there, she wondered. "Currently your primary suspect."

"Yes," Kurt said tersely. "But—"

"He's being framed, in my opinion."

Kurt felt the knot in his stomach loosen even further. "Do you?"

"Don't you?"

He sighed. "Yes. But I couldn't be sure."

"From what I know of him—professionally, of course, and by yours and others impressions—it doesn't suit him. He's a powerful and wealthy man; he could've certainly hired someone. But he seems like a man to prefer to do his own work. If he would've done it, it would've required extreme emotions. Not just anger. Vengeance, icy fury. Retribution, retaliation. It would've had to been personal. And while the killings are close, they're far from personal. Too robotic, too professional."

"And you don't believe he hired someone?"

"I don't, no. He seems they type of man that if he were to have any issues, he'd handle it personally. Then to bring his relationship with both victims in—close friend, and stranger—he doesn't seem the type to hurt his friends. Even if there was tension, no. From observation of all that I know, he would've completely cut her out of his life if she had done something. He also doesn't seem the type to lay his hands on a woman, ever."

"And Evans?" Kurt asked.

"It's reaching. There's a link, but barely, and not even a steady one. He was a friend of Tina's, who was close to Santana and Brittany, who were close to Blaine. A smoke screen. Now, do I believe that Santana and Sam play a significant part? Certainly."

"How so?"

"It's not just to frame Blaine. It's a benefit, but that's not all."

"That's my opinion too. I have another profile I'd like you to look at. Jones will send you further information, but I'd like you to look it over."

Shelby raised an amused brow. "Working with the media for a change?"

"The devil you know."

Shelby laughed. "I couldn't've said it better myself. Now what's worrying you?"

Kurt sat straight again. "Nothing."

"Kurt."

"Okay, okay, since it could have bearing on the case." He sighed and looked away, pushing a hand through his hair. "Blaine Anderson. He's… My gut's been saying that he had nothing to do with it. Is he capable of murder? Oh yeah. Anyone is, but him, yes. He's polite, and charming, but icily so, and just has this feel of danger, you know? So yeah, he could kill. But my opinion is the same as yours. But I couldn't be certain, and if I wasn't certain, I couldn't knock him down the list."

Shelby sat back, feeling slight wonder, but the picture of professionalism. "You may have feelings for him."

"No," Kurt corrected quickly. "Something about him gets me, but no. Attraction? Oh yeah. What did Jones say…? The guy's sex on short legs. But I couldn't let that get in the way of the case. He sent me coffee," Kurt added, without meaning to. And despite himself, he felt something in him soften just remembering it.

"Coffee?"

"The real stuff," Kurt explained. "Not that soy shi—ah, crap, that we drink now with all the faux additives. It was real. I had a cup in his office the first time, and I guess I didn't cover my adoration for it as well as I thought."

"Oh, my," Shelby said softly, with a quiet smile. She watched Kurt's eyes soften, then as he struggled with himself, battling to not let it get to him. She marveled for a moment, staring at him, "he certainly has you tangled up, doesn't he?"

"If you mean tangled up wanting to jump his bones and wipe that charming smirk off his face at the same time, then yes. But like I said, I couldn't be certain if it was my personal feelings getting in the way. So now that I have your opinion, it clears my head quite a bit."

"Professionally, I'll say it's a good thing you came to me. Also professionally, I'll say to see if you can hold off on anything personal with him until after the case. It could get sticky for you as primary. Personally, I'll say that as soon as this case is closed to go for it."

"What?" Kurt would swear up and down that he didn't squeak.

Shelby would say otherwise. "Did I stutter?"

He sighed, and stood from his chair. "Thank you for meeting with me, but I have to go and nag Abrams. And if I stay in here any longer the dragon-lady will pull me out by my insides."

Shelby cast a long glance at her office door, fighting a smile. "She's not that bad."

"You're right, she's worse."

"She's efficient," she said mildly. "And she's good at her job."

"Doesn't make her any less of a she-witch," Kurt argued, not at all chastised.

"You're limping."

Kurt glanced at his leg, scowling. "Came with the bruise."

Instead of worrying any further, she waved toward her door, "Don't let me keep you. You can call me any time, for anything. I mean it, Kurt."

He moved his shoulders, uncomfortable by her sincerity. "Yeah."

She laughed, sipping her juice. "Go on, before my dragon lady comes in here."

"Right," he said, and hightailed it out of there with Shelby's laugh ringing.

*.*

"Good news and bad news for ya," Abrams said as soon as Kurt called.

"Bad news first."

"Scott Strollop's smoke. Nothing, nada, beyond eight months ago. Didn't even exist. Barely any transactions too."

"That was to be expected."

"Yeah," Abrams agreed, pushing his bright green glasses up his nose. "but still."

"Good news?"

Abrams brightened. "Got your guy."

Kurt frowned. "And by got him you mean?"

"On tape. Both in Anderson's building and the night Evans died. Went back over the vids, knew I was missing something and it was driving me up it—you know the wall—and found ourselves a pretty little trace. Reconstructed after removing the lay over, and voila. We just found the invisible man."

Kurt smiled, sharp, even as he thought of Puck saying something about the little echo earlier. "Gotcha."

"Exact squared. Got him on tape with Evans, PA can wrap that up nice and pretty."

"I'm going to send you the surveillance from Elpans. Puck viewed it to see if Lopez ever made it there, and he found a blip on the screen, about one minute in duration. Think you can find our invisible man again?"

"Not an issue, DS. Ah, more good news. Well. One is all around good news. The other is good news for me, but may be an irritant for you. Slightly."

Kurt felt foreboding rise. "What is it?"

"I'm gonna give you the good/bad news first, that way I can soften you up with our good/good news. Anyway," he went on quickly when Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Guess who just donated all sorts of new toys to our department up here in TEDD?"

Kurt closed his eyes. "Don't tell me."

"I don't know what you're doing to Anderson," Abrams added cheerily. "But keep it up. Our new equip is beyond fab cubed, it's so outside the stratosphere."

"Good news, now. Before I come up to TEDD and take a hammer to all your new fab equipment."

Abrams gave him an affronted and territorial look. Kurt was surprised he didn't bare his teeth. "Mine. Anyway," he added petulantly, "Found Evan's hidey-hole. You were right on that front too. We were missing his personal units. And I got into his personal comp. The guys' safety features would've done an E-man proud. If he wanted this department, he could've made it. But we found our link. Guess who was conversing with our girl for the past, oh month, and had it all hush hush?"

"Really. Did you figure out what?"

Abrams shook his head. "Nah. Wiped all of his transmissions. The most we could find was the fact that he was even speaking to her. But he had something on his unit, an e-journal if you will. All sorts of cryptic and the last few entries were getting steadily antsy. More unsettled. Almost sacred. Something was going on. I'll send them to you. You want home, office, or mobile unit?"

"Give me mobile," he checked his clock. Almost one.

"You got it," he clicked off.

*.*

_Talked to S today. Something's up. I never really had much to do with her before. Guess 'cause I'm a friend of T's. Anyway, something about a personal case of hers she wanted me to take a look at. Seemed off. But whatever. Not like I have much to do, at the mo. What harm could there be._

…

_I was right when I said something was off. This is weird shit. Involving the BC she's friends with. She doesn't know what's up, but says she's got a bad feeling. After talking with her about it, I do too. Just don't know what._

…

_Holy shit. Man, can you say soap opera? S found a vid with the W. Freaking nutso. It was a backup, I suppose. W deleted the other, and it took S ages to uncover it. More personal than criminal, but she seems really upset about something, so I might as well stay on. Anyway, the employment of this guy falls to the hands of the new BC now, so whatev. _

…

_More of the same stuff today, pretty much. 'cept S said she found something huge and is heading over now. Not antsy anymore, seemed really upset. _

…

_Fuck. Okay, yeah, scared is right. I'm barely an officer and she wants me to handle this shit? But there's not enough proof yet, and she wants to find more. Build a case, she said, she knows what she's doing, she says, she needs to talk to the BC she said. _

_How do you tell a guy something like that?_

…

_Haven't heard from S. I've got a bad feeling. I know today is her anniversary and all, but I think W knows somehow. I just have a bad feeling. A bad, bad feeling. _

…

_S is dead. Fuck me, I knew it, I knew he knew. DSH is on her case, I need to call him. My fucking link is going out of whack though. Damn thing. I'll call him tomorrow. _

_How they hell did he know?_

*.*

Kurt read the last transmission with a small frown. He shot it off to Shelby, asking her to look it over when she had the time in a little note.

S was obviously Santana.

DSH—Detective Sergeant Hummel.

BC and W. No clue what those were.

Personal file.

"What did you find?" Kurt wondered.

Kurt had an odd feeling he already knew what one of those abbreviations meant.

*.*

Wes yawned, stretching his arms above his head. He took a drink of the coffee at his elbow then grimaced, sticking his tongue out. Cold coffee. Yuck.

He got up to pour himself some more, and then glanced at his monitor when it pinged with an incoming. Wes had his unit hooked to Abrams, every time he sent or received a transmission; it would also send to Wes' with nary a shadow.

He walked over, lifting the cup to his lips as he read over Sam Evan's e-entries. He frowned, setting his cup down as he read it, becoming more concerned and wary as he read on. When he got to BC he stopped, and feeling it slide into place he inserted the proper names in the entries.

Feeling grim, he sat down to try to find those vids Sam was speaking of.

Sand with a sinking feeling, he knew just where to start.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Oh. Hi. I'm not dead! I've just been very neglectful, to all of my stories on here. For that I apologize. **

**I don't know how long it will be until my next update, and I won't try to make any empty promises. But hopefully this update can tide you guys over for a little while longer until I can knock out the next few chapters. **

**For those of you guys who have stuck around with this, you are completely amazing and I don't deserve you. Reviewers, I would just love to cuddle all of you up and weep over every single one of you. Even those of you who don't review but stalk this from afar, I adore you. You guys are the reason I keep writing, so hopefully this is up to par. **

**Rating: M **

**Pairings: Klaine, Niff, vague mentions of Brittana.**

**Warnings: Character death, violence, slight gore, language and sexual situations. Alternate Universe, obviously. **

**Summary: The year is 2047, and H****omicide Detective Kurt Hummel was just called on as Primary for a well-known District Attorney's murder. As the bodies continue to pile up, all traces lead back to one Blaine Anderson, who Kurt can't help but feel is innocent. Something connects this case that just doesn't seem to add up, and when one body becomes another, and another, Kurt is running out of time to figure out just what it is.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor do I own any of the characters mentioned. **

"Thanks for this, Blaine," Brittney said softly, pushing her hair off of her forehead and glancing around her living room absent-mindedly. "You didn't have to."

Blaine stood from where he was crouched taping a box closed. He looked around the empty living room, once full of family trinkets and Britt's knickknacks, now only bearing their worn and loved couch. Brittney was standing in the middle of the large room, looking lost and confused.

He walked over to her and took her small hands in his, waiting until she lifted her dazed eyes to his. He leaned forward and planted a kiss softly on her forehead. He felt her tremble slightly, and she pressed forward with a shaky sigh, curling into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, gripping her as she shook. A glance down confirmed that she wasn't crying, but her eyes were clenched shut and she was biting her lip.

"It just doesn't feel real," she said after a moment. "I keep thinking I'm just having a bad dream, that she'll walk back through the door and kiss me and play with the kids and hold me. Then I see the kids, and I see my parents, and I remember I'm not dreaming."

His eyes slid shut of their own accord, and gripped her tighter, uncertain how to reply or how to lessen her grief. It wasn't like this when his own father had died; his mother was already gone, and his grief was contained only to the loss of thinking of what kind of Father he could have been instead of the man he actually was. It was a new area for him, and he hated himself for not being able to help his friend.

"I'm here for you," he finally replied. "Always."

She sighed once more, turning her face into his neck. "I know," she said, lifting her head, gazing at him and lifting a hand to cup his cheek. "I know. I'm sorry."

He blinked, thrown for a moment. He lifted his own hand to cover hers. "What for, Britts?"

"You lost her too," she reminded; eyes unbearably sad. "She was yours too."

His throat tightened, and he turned his face into her cheek to press his lips to her palm instead of replying. He held her hand there for a moment, just breathing, then stepped back, clearing his throat softly. He nodded at the boxes lining the wall. "I'll have someone come by later to get those. They should be in Ohio by tomorrow evening."

She puffed out a breath, looking at the boxes, her hands on her hips. "That'd be great. Thank you." She looked around the living room again, and walked over to a large window. Blaine knew she was looking out at where the kids were sitting on the front lawn with their grandparents. She ran a hand lightly down the window sill. "It's weird to think that we're leaving. That we're leaving our home. That Santana isn't going with us. I keep second guessing myself, wondering if this is the right thing to do, the right thing to take the kids from the only home they've ever known, away from the people who have become their family."

He said nothing, waiting until she said all she needed to. He didn't mention that the house would be here if she ever wanted to come back. She didn't need to know at the moment. It'd just overwhelm her to find out that he kept the house for her. But if she or the kids ever needed it, it'd always be there for them.

Brittney let out a short laugh. "San and I have lived in this house for almost eight years. We've been in New York nearing ten. It's more home than Lima ever was."

Now he stepped forward, looking out the window with her. And there were her two little ones, sitting on the small yard doing nothing as their grandparents tried to occupy them, tried to distract them from the fact that they were going to one of their mother's funeral today. "That's why," Blaine said quietly. "You need your parents. We're your family too, but what you need—what your children need—are your parents to help you get back on your feet, to help you adjust. New York will always be here. But you need them, and the kids need you." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, kissing the back of her head. "And the best place you can help them is Lima. You know that town. As much as you may not like it, it's what's best for all of you. You're doing the right thing."

He heard her swallow thickly, and she reached up to grip his hand tightly. "You always know the exact thing to say. Thank you. For everything."

They stayed staring out the window, both grieving, and watching the four in front of the empty house grieve with them. "You're welcome. Always."

*.*

"Listen half-wit, I don't care if you're currently wiping the president's ass," Kurt glanced up as he heard Puck snap, stepping into the pen. "Find them. And for Christ's sake, wipe the fucking ketchup off your face, would you?"

Kurt raised an eyebrow and sat back in his creaky chair, looking at Puck curiously. "Problem?"

Puck snarled, something not like him what so ever, and Kurt felt the other eyebrow raise. "I'll take that as a yes."

He rolled his eyes, plopping down on Kurt's desk. "The little officer MacGuire decided to adopt into our little Homicide family got into a freaking chase over on tenth. Saw two guys snap up this lady's purse—though she kind of deserved it, only a fucking tourist would be sweeping that thing back and forth in broad daylight. Anyway, saw it and decided to give chase. Not only did they guys get away, he ran into two vendors and caused a mobile accident. Shit head."

"Why are you dealing with MacGuire's aide?"

"I was just heading back from Elpans when the little dumb ass decided to report it on his communicator. I was closest and just so happened to be the lucky one to scoop up all his shit." He snorted, cheering up slightly. "The tanning I gave him will be nothing when MacGuire gets to him."

"Never took you to be the glass-half full, type." Kurt shook his head. "Anyway. What've you got for me?"

Puck took a disc from his pocket and slid it across Kurt's desk. "Swung by TEDD. See if Abrams has gotten anything accomplished. Got the fully reconstructed security disc from Elpans."

"Perfect," Kurt snapped it up and slid it into his unit. He frowned as Puck nudged his way over to get a better view of the screen. "Gee, Puckerman, am I in your way?"

"A bit," Puck said easily, obviously immune to sarcasm. "But thanks for moving over, Princess."

Kurt resisted the urge to grumble, and satisfied himself by scowling at the back of Puck's head before pressing play.

"Hummel."

Kurt glanced up as Sylvester's voice cut through the bull pen, and he quickly pressed pause before the disc could play out. "Yes, ma'am."

"My office. Now." Kurt narrowed his eyes when she turned on her heel and into her office, leaving the door open as a clear indication that he was to follow.

Puck whistled from beside him staring after her, and turning his eyes to Kurt's. "Something's up with the, LT. Watch where you step, Hummel."

"She's probably just in one of her moods," Kurt replied, standing. "Needs someone to snipe at without having a formal complaint landing on the Commander's desk. Be right back. Don't go through my shit."

Puck's eyes narrowed as he glanced consideringly at Kurt's desk. "Why? What do you have in there? You wouldn't've said anything unless you had good stuff in there."

Puck reached for a drawer, and Kurt reached over to slam it close. "Mine," he said, glaring. "I'll know if you've touched, and if you have then I'll break every one of your fingers then make you eat them."

"Sir, yes sir." Puck saluted mockingly.

With one last glare, Kurt turned away and rolled his eyes with a small smile when he heard his drawer open. His smile grew when he heard Puck let out a yelp. "Shit. Hummel! What the hell?"

"Told you not to touch it," Kurt called over his shoulder. He knocked once on Sylvester's door frame. "You needed me, Lieutenant?"

"Shut the door, Hummel. Sit."

Kurt kept his expression blank, and did as he was told. He stepped into the office and clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for her to speak.

"It's come to my attention that you ran a search on Officer Evans." Her eyes were steady.

Kurt tilted his head, nodding. "I instructed Detective Abrams to do the procedure background check on Sam Evans, yes."

She nodded, narrowing her eyes. "The basic background is procedure, correct. However, what is not procedure is the second level background search."

Kurt felt his insides clench, but his expression remained neutral. "Lieutenant, I can assure you, Detective Abrams has not run a second level on Evans, nor had I instructed him to do so. Not only would a warrant be required, it wasn't necessary at the moment."

"I'm not talking about Abrams," she snapped, leaning forward. "Cut the bullshit, Hummel. You think I don't know what Puckerman can do? And the fact that he's with you on this case, I can add two and two. Not only did you order him to cross the line, it came back to bite you in the ass."

"I did not order Puckerman to do any such thing." His voice was as cool as her eyes. "And if I had, and he had gone through with it—which I did not, nor did he—you've said yourself that you know what Puckerman is capable of. So it wouldn't've come back to bite anyone in the ass." He kept his eyes steady on hers. "Which it won't do now, considering neither Puckerman nor I had anything to do with what you're accusing."

"Are you willing to hold that claim up under testing?"

He felt his blood warm. He could pass it, nine times out of ten, which wasn't the problem. The problem was what she was implying. "Are you going to set one up?"

She stared at him, long and hard. He gave nothing away. At last, she sat back, eyes still on his. "I've heard some things. Regarding you and Anderson."

"And what might that be, Lieutenant?"

"Are you involved with him?" She asked bluntly.

"No."

She shook her head in disgust. "You think I don't know what you're doing here? Tiptoeing around the truth? And what about TEDD's new equipment?"

"What Anderson does with his money and electronics has nothing to do with me."

"I think you need to step away from this case," she said after silence had stretched in the office for a moment.

What had warmed inside him now turned cold. "Step away." He stated blankly.

"Yes," she nodded. "Step away. Assign it to someone else. Not Puckerman," she added.

Kurt reined himself in, and his fists clenched behind his back. "You're basing this on rumors regarding a relationship between Anderson and I—which doesn't exist, might I add—and false accusations about a second level search on Evans."

"No," she snapped. "I'm requesting it because the goddamn primary can't get his head on straight."

"Excuse me, Lieutenant, but my head has been on perfectly fine. I've been running this case exactly as procedure requires. With respect, I'd like to deny your request." His eyes flattened. "Unless you would like to make it an order, sir."

Her face lost any warmth whatsoever. It was cold and hard now. "I can go to the commander with this."

"And you'll be denied and facing embarrassment and disrespect from all the cops in that pen. Not to mention a new cop would be assigned who'd have to start all over and would never be as thorough as my team. Fuck it, Sylvester," he snapped. "This case is mine, and Lopez and Evans are mine. They're a part of me now, and I can either run this case officially or unofficially. But there's no way I'm letting them go."

She lowered her chin, and Kurt saw something like contempt enter her eyes before they shut off completely. "Shut the door on your way out. You can have them for now. Three days," she added as he turned his back, and he paused. "You have three days to make considerable headway. Then you're out."

He said nothing, instead nodded curtly and exited the room.

"Shit, Hummel you need to see this, it's right here, clear as day—" Puck cut off when he glanced away from the screen and saw Kurt's expression. "What's wrong?"

Kurt bent his face next to Puck's until wariness entered the other man's eyes. No one paid any attention to them, subtly looking away to give them privacy. "When you did that search on Evans, and assured me that you left no traces. Were you bullshitting me?"

"I'm good at what I do," Puck defended. "There wasn't a fucking hairline of trace left." Enough insult entered alongside the wariness to convince Kurt that it wasn't Puck's doing.

Kurt nodded, and stepped back. "Then something's going on here that we don't know about."

Puck snorted, his shoulders relaxing. "What else is new with this case?"

"Good point. Show me what's on the disc now, and I'll fill you in afterward."

The disc was split in two different screens, showing the front of Elpans and the foyer on the inside. A woman was standing inside the foyer—the manager, Kurt recognized. She was talking to a man who must've been the greeter.

There were people walking up and down the street, most on their 'links, others with coffee, a woman with a child.

"This is where it cut off," Puck said, staring at the screen. "It was reconstructed to bring back the image."

About a minute after the cutoff point, Lopez appeared. Kurt could see the difference from the slight Buzzer. Her eyes were a bit heavier, and she was blinking slowly.

And as Kurt watched, Strollop came up beside her, gripping her elbow companionably.

"There," Kurt said softly, leaning forward and pointing to Strollop's hand. "That's the tranq—twenty minutes after the buzzer. Still a bit out of it, a little sleepy so she doesn't really notice things. His hand is facing inwards; nobody can see the injection into the crook of her elbow. Smooth," Kurt nodded. "Very smooth."

Strollop then leaned down to say something in her ear, and she frowned slightly, looking a bit confused as she was led away from the restaurant. Inside, the manager glanced at the clock, shaking her head as the man asked her something and turned to help him.

"Here is where the video comes back."

Kurt shook his head two minutes after Santana was led away to her death. "Easy. So fucking easy."

"Yeah," Puck's gaze was hard. He shook his head, and turned back toward Kurt. "Abram's is working on the body drop outside of the apartment buildings; he should have that for you by the end of the day. What now?"

"Now," Kurt said, "We go see the manager, and I can fill you in."

"Can we get lunch first?" Puck asked, trailing behind him.

"Only if you're buying."

*.*

The manger was upset, understandably. She didn't pace, nor did she cry, but she sat very still, the only movement being her hands which she wrung in agitation.

"She was late to check things over; it was no problem, of course, the restaurant was closed to everyone but them, but I guess I have this thing about punctuality. Mr. Anderson had assured me that she'd be there either before or at that time."

"And when you realized no one was going to arrive?" Kurt asked.

She shook her head, sighing. "At first, I just figured they had gotten hung up. Like I said, the restaurant was closed. It wasn't a big deal. Maybe they were pushed back. I didn't want to call Mrs. Lopez, Mr. Anderson informed me that it was a surprise and I didn't want to give her away. I thought, maybe they had pushed the time back and I just hadn't realized, and checked for any missed messages, but nothing. Then I saw the news report."

"You didn't hear any disturbance at all?"

"No. The walls are soundproofed from the outside. Even if they weren't, we're located on a fairly busy street."

Kurt nodded and turned off his recorder. "I'd like to thank you for supplying us with those security discs."

She waved a hand. "Not only is it my job to be of any assistance, Mr. Anderson sent out a memo to all of his managers to cooperate with you in any way."

Kurt saw Puck purse his lips and turn away discreetly. Kurt fought off a flush of mortification by sheer will and shook her hand, and led them out of the restaurant.

"Impressions?" Kurt asked when they were on the street.

"Anderson seems to be firmly wrapped around your lovely finger?"

Kurt shot him a glance, and Puck chuckled. "Sorry. Couldn't resist. Efficient. Feeling guilty. Cooperative. Must be good at her job if she's one of Anderson's managers."

"Innocent?"

"That's what my gut's telling me," Puck nodded.

"Mine too. Well, that's one to cross off the list."

Puck cast him a sorrowful glance. "My gut's also telling me that it needs substance; otherwise it may start eating itself."

"Jesus." Kurt rolled his eyes. "Go get something from the vendor."

"You are a god." Puck shot off to the nearest one. Kurt shook his head and made his way toward his vehicle, which they had, surprisingly, managed to park on the street.

He had just started the car when the passenger's side opened and Puck slid in, already jamming a soy dog in his face. "Here," he said in a muffled voice, shoving fries and a Pop at him.

Kurt shook his head in disgust at Puck and took the offering. "Just learn to eat, Puckerman?"

"I'm starving," he said around another mouthful. "Don't judge me."

"When you're spewing masticated soy dog over my car," Kurt said while wiping said soy dog delicately off of his dash. "I have every right to judge."

Puck said something under his breath that luckily for him, Kurt didn't catch. In a louder voice he asked, "So what was the deal with Sylvester? You looked ready to spit nails after you came out of her office."

Kurt felt everything inside him knot up once again at the mention of it as he pulled away from the curb. "You know," he said lightly, "I never understood that expression. Who the hell would put nails in their mouth to begin with?"

Puck shot him a bland look, and Kurt continued, rolling his eyes, "Sylvester wants to remove us from the case."

"What?" Puck looked both alarmed and indignant, and oddly enough, it eased most of the tension in Kurt. "What do you mean? What for? When? Why?"

"I mean, she wants to reassign it to someone else, she thinks I don't have my head on straight, brought up the second layer search on Evans," Puck frowned. "Anderson. I'm not sure when, but if we don't make serious headway in forty-eight, we're off."

"What about Anderson? And how does she know about the second layer?"

"She thinks I'm…" he searched for the words awkwardly, frowning. "Involved with him. Romantically. Which I'm not," he added with a glare, seeing Puck's smirk. "And I'm not sure how she knows, especially if you didn't leave any trails."

Puck paused for a moment, thinking. Finally he said at length, "You don't buy any of it."

Kurt sighed. "I don't, no. I think her reasons are bullshit. I don't know what's going on, but this case is mine. These people are mine." He shot a glance at Puck. "I'm not letting them go."

"Good," Puck nodded. "'Cause if you were gonna, I'd think you were involved in something that made you hit your head."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "Should I take that as some sort of back-handed compliment, considering you're commenting on my listening to superior demands?"

Puck took a drink of his fizzy pop regally, turning his head away. "Take it how you will, Detective Sergeant. What now?"

"Now," Kurt said, pulling in to NYPD's parking garage, "You get out, and see how far Abrams has gotten on the background with Strollop." He paused thoughtfully, weighing his options, and cast the other man a considering glance. "And—this is an option, a request—since I know you can get past SafeGuard, and Sylvester is blowing some sort of smoke—"

"You want me to see what else I can find, go deeper without sending up flags," Puck finished. He nodded, tossing back the rest of his pop. "Done."

"If you don't think it can happen without—" Kurt started, only to be cut off once again.

"I said done," Puck said firmly, raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head, sighing, unable to resist the small smile tugging at his lips. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Puck got out of the car, and leaned his head back in. "Where are you off to?"

Kurt glanced at the clock, seeing it was nearing four already and wondering where the hell the day had gone. He and Anderson had scheduled to meet at five thirty. "I think I'm going to run by the morgue, check in with Fabray, then head over to Anderson's offices. He's taking me through the security, and giving me a look at the scalpel."

Puck smirked once again, and Kurt waved him out impatiently. "Go, before you say something I'll have to hit you for. I'll tag you later."

"Mmhm." Puck shot him a suggestive look, but zipped his lips and shut the door. He walked away, whistling.

"Asshole." Kurt muttered with a snort. He keyed in his in-dash 'link for the morgue. Quinn's face slid on the screen, goggles on.

"Ah, Detective Sergeant," she said pleasantly. "Just the man I was looking for."

"I feel the same way. Where have you been all my life?"

She quirked a small smile and slid the micro-goggles on the top of her head. "Right here baby; elbow deep in blood, gore, and dead bodies."

"My soul-mate." He paused. "That's kind of disturbing, actually."

She laughed. "Don't think on it and it won't seem as morbid. What'd you need?"

"Wanted to see how you're doing with my body."

She took off a glove and ran a hand through her ruffled blonde hair, eyes professional now. "As I've said before, cause of death is the same MO as Lopez's. Clean. In the Head Medical Examiner's opinion, professionally so. Quick," she added, giving him a level look. "It was quick. Quick enough that it was painless."

Kurt nodded, thanking that at least the boy didn't go through the same pain that Santana had. "Where's he at now?"

"Parents are coming to retrieve the body," she sighed. "They verified by 'link. No matter how many times you see the same thing—the grief, the pain and denial—it's always different."

He nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. A survivor's pain was never the same twice, though the feelings were exact at the core of things.

She shook her head, as if clearing it. "Anyway. Funeral is the day after tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Attending?"

"No," she shot him a small smile, eyes weary. "I doubt they'd want the examiner who cut up their son's body to be at his funeral."

"I'm leading the case on his murder," he said, eyebrow raised. "Imagine how that'll feel."

She hummed, and paused. "She's strong. The mother," she added. "She had already gone through that first wave when they called in. She held up."

"Yeah," Kurt said, remembering the older blonde woman he had spoken with directly after Sam's death. The father had sobbed, he remembered. She sat, holding him up, tears falling silently while Kurt spoke to them both. Only when he had turned away to leave, the door shutting behind him, had he heard her begin to weep. "Yeah, she is."

"Anyway," she said briskly. "I've given you all there is to give you."

"Thanks, Fabray."

"Just doing my job," she said before clicking off.

He sat back in his seat and sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. He looked at the glove box and contemplated taking a blocker for his headache. And, he thought with a small wince, rotating his ankle and touching his cheekbone lightly, for his freaking battle wounds. He struggled with himself for a moment longer and decided against it. He hated the damn things; no need to take one if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

He shook his head to clear it, feeling more than a little punchy from lack of sleep, and put his vehicle on auto. Best not to get in an accident at the moment. He was just getting ready to dial his 'ink again when it pinged before he could touch it. He raised an eyebrow at seeing the incoming transmission.

"Jones," he said neutrally after he had answered.

The woman on the other line had her dark hair swept back on top of her head in a messy bun. For the first time he could ever recall, she wore no enhancements, and she had thin wire glasses perched on the edge of her nose. She shifted, and he could see the collar of a sweatshirt instead of her usual flashy suits.

But her eyes were all business. "My contacts came back with that info you requested." She lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Not much here to warrant suspect status for your case. Interesting, but hardly murder-capable."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said easily. He nodded to her attire. "What's with the threads?"

"Working from home. No need to be all gussied up unless I'm called in."

"Gotcha. Gonna shoot me those files?"

She nodded, eyes narrowed. "Yeah. There a reason you wanted this background without sending up flags?"

"Best to take precautions. The man's an ace behind a keyboard; if we didn't go the other route he'd know that I was looking at him deeper."

She shook her head. "You're the cop. Remember our deal, Hummel. I want in when this breaks."

"You'll get in. Thanks for the info. Now let me go do my job."

He ended the transmission before she could reply and keyed in Anderson's direct line.

After a moment, Pillsbury's face swam on screen, an apologetic look in her eyes. "Sergeant Hummel," she said. "I'm sorry; Mr. Anderson is finishing up his last meeting of the day. It should be finished soon."

He quirked a smile for her and shook his head. "No problem. Just wanted to let someone know I was on my way over. This works perfectly. Could you let him know I'll be there in about five minutes?"

She nodded; face relaxing into professional lines once again. "Of course. Mr. Anderson requested dinner be brought up; he's having a late night here. Will you be joining him?"

"Ah, no." he said uncomfortably. "I'll be there on business."

She raised a reproachful eyebrow, "Even businessmen have to eat, Sergeant." She cast a sharp glance over what she could see of him on screen. She nodded decisively. "I'll order extra."

"I don't—" she clicked off before he could finish and he stared at the screen in disbelief. He shook his head. "What the hell is with those people?" he muttered, sitting back while his vehicle took him to Blaine's offices.

*.*

The blonde ditz at the receptionists' desk shot him a wary glance as he made his way across the lobby to the elevator. He kept his face blank until he got into the lift and only when the doors closed did he let himself let out a snort.

He leaned against the mirrored walls, checking his watch. He shoved his hands in his front pockets, feeling strangely jittery. He blamed it on the energy pill.

The doors slid open smoothly, and he stepped out, heading down the hallway to Pillsbury's desk. Anderson was leaning against her desk, talking quietly to her when he came in to view.

The other man was already glancing up with a warm smile, which slid off his face when he got a look at Kurt. His eyes narrowed, and he swept over, gripping Kurt's chin softly, tilting his head to get a better look at Kurt's face.

"Whoa," Kurt said, blinking, startled.

Blaine ran his other hand over the bruise on Kurt's cheekbone softly, and Kurt's stomach tightened. "What happened here?"

"Uh," Kurt said, a little overwhelmed by Anderson's proximity and the gentle hand on his face. "Tussle at the Cop Shop. Other guy's worse off. Job hazard."

Blaine hummed noncommittally, still running his fingers gently over the bruise. Kurt swallowed without meaning to, and Anderson's gaze lifted from the bruise to look Kurt in the eyes. Something shifted and Kurt felt his mouth go dry.

He heard someone cough, and Kurt snapped back, realizing where they were. He stepped back quickly, Anderson's hands falling away. Montgomery and Thompson were standing in the doorway in the hallway from the elevator, looking distinctly amused. Pillsbury, Kurt saw with mingled embarrassment and gratefulness, was looking away discreetly, busying herself with something on her desk.

"Detective Sergeant," Thompson greeted, glancing at Blaine, who was running a hand through his hair, looking flustered.

"Thompson," Kurt replied with as much dignity as he could gather.

"Are you joining us in the labs?" Montgomery asked cheerfully, eyes twinkling.

Kurt nodded, swallowing and resisting the urge to fidget. "Yes. That's why I'm here. Will you be joining us?"

Kurt thought he heard Thompson murmur something about a chaperone, and Kurt saw the tips of Blaine's ears redden. Kurt was so fascinated with the sight of the other man actually blushing; he didn't realize he was staring until Montgomery said loudly, "We sure will. David is the department head of that division, and I'm supposed to be giving you some excuse about how I'm security and technology head or whatever. But where David and Blaine go; I go."

Kurt bit back a smile at that, thinking about how much Montgomery reminded him of Jeff. The smile faded back at the thought of his best friend, and he nodded once. "Fine with me."

Kurt turned to Anderson to suggest they get started, and saw the other man frowning at him faintly. Kurt quickly blanked his face, wondering if he had seen something that Kurt was thinking, and the frown deepened. Kurt glanced at the other two men and saw they weren't even paying them any mind. Kurt turned his attention back to Blaine and gestured at the lift. "Shall we?" he asked.

Blaine nodded, frown clearing smoothly before he turned to Montgomery and Thompson. "Yes." He raised his voice slightly. "If you two are done gossiping like old women, let's give the Detective Sergeant the grand tour."

"What's got you antsy?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, trailing behind Hummel and Blaine.

Wes glanced at David, more startled than he should've been to know that David noticed. David always noticed everything, especially where Wes was concerned.

Wes didn't say anything for a long moment and David pulled them back a little while the other men climbed in the elevator, holding it open for them. Wes ignored Blaine's not-exactly-patient look. And shook his head minutely. "Nothing."

Without even looking, Wes knew that David was frowning at him. He felt his hands curl around his elbow, and David waved for Blaine and Hummel to go ahead. Blaine frowned but went ahead, and Wes saw the considering glance that Hummel shot at them.

The other men disappeared from view as the elevator doors slid closed, and Wes turned to David warily. "What are you hiding?" David asked without pomp or circumstance, eyes directly on Wes'.

"I—" Wes sighed, frowning and rubbing the back of his neck, looking away while he tried to think of how to word what it was. "I think—no, I have something to tell you and Blaine. That neither of you will like. At all. And—" he cast a glance at the elevator doors. "It has to do with the investigation."

"Hey," David said softly, sounding concerned, and he even rubbed his hands up and down Wes' arms, though he didn't like being too affectionate. Wes knew he wouldn't be doing even this if Emma could see. "You know you can tell me anything."

Wes felt his stomach clench, and he glanced up into David's warm brown eyes. He swallowed thickly at how kind they looked, knowing they might not look that way when Wes was finished.

He couldn't say anything. He clenched his eyes tight and curled his fingers in David's jacket, pulling him forwards and pushing his head into David's neck; breathing and trying to think past the panic.

"Shh," David's arms wrapped around him, and he could hear the confusion in his voice. "Wes?"

Wes let out a deep, shuddering breath, and opened his mouth to speak, still gripping him tightly.

*.*

Kurt watched as Blaine frowned at the closed elevator doors, his reflection slight distorted in the silver metal.

He stamped down on the urge to touch his sleeve and instead asked softly, "Problem?"

The other man seemed to remember he wasn't alone, and glanced at Kurt in confusion. "What? Oh, no."

"Montgomery didn't look so hot." Kurt nodded to the closed doors.

Blaine sighed, leaning back against the glass wall that Kurt was leaned against, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his well-fitted jeans. So well fitted that Kurt had to stop his gaze from straying every thirty seconds.

"You noticed that too?"

Kurt hummed noncommittally, and Blaine scratched his jaw, his nails rubbing against the hint of stubble shadowing it. "David will handle it." He said certainly.

"Are they…" Kurt raised his eyebrows significantly.

Blaine smiled softly. "They're Wes and David," he said simply, laughing at the look Kurt shot him. "No, seriously. That's what they've said since high school. I don't really know if they're together or if they're just so used to being dependent on each other that they can't be apart. They've lived together since middle school. Same dorms in Middle, and same roomed together in High School and College. They have a place together; I just don't know if they actually make use of the other rooms."

Kurt tilted his head. "Isn't that weird? That you're their best friend and you don't know?"

Blaine paused, as if actually thinking about it, while watching the elevator lift go down beyond the lobby floors. "No," he said finally. "It's just how they've always been. Whether they're together or not wouldn't make any difference to me."

"You're not curious at all?"

Blaine shook his head, giving Kurt a small smile. "It is what it is." His smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made Kurt's own lips want to pull up into a smile. "What's with the twenty questions?"

Kurt shrugged, jamming his hands in his pockets. "While you may not be curious, I am."

"About them?"

"About everything," Kurt felt his lips pull despite himself as he remembered something that Jeff had said about him probably being an obnoxious child if Kurt asked as many questions as he did now. "'Guess I'm just a curious person."

Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but the elevator doors slid open, revealing the hallway Kurt had seen in the security videos. "After you," Blaine swept his arm out to indicate Kurt should step out, and he did so, rolling his eyes even as he took in the layout.

"You only have the one camera?"

Blaine nodded, stepping up to the door Strollop had walked through. "It's a short hallway."

"Any eyes inside the lab?"

Blaine shot him a bland look. "If there were, I would've known for sure it was Strollop immediately after Wes and David reported the LS missing. Not to mention, you'd have the security vids."

Kurt made a face at Blaine's retreating back. He followed him into the lab, closing the door behind him.

Kurt stopped. "Whoa."

The 'lab' was huge. If it could even be called that. To Kurt it looked like a large, high-tech warehouse. It was completely open, with a large panel of various e-things that Kurt had never even seen before. One wall was made up of four different screens, now turned off. On further inspection, there were two hallways, one on one side of the room, and one on the other.

Kurt felt his eyebrows rise, and he turned to Blaine who looked amused at Kurt's shameless gaping. Kurt quickly frowned, looking away and pretending he wasn't gawking. "So," he said nonchalantly, walking past Blaine. "Where are the LS's located? And why the hell aren't there any cameras with all of this," he gestured to the electronics, "lying around?"

Blaine nodded to the hallway leading off to the right. "All prototypes and clean projects are down that way at the end of the hall. And there aren't any cameras because all of the experiments interfere, so they'd be dead useless anyway. Not to mention," he added, eyes darkening. "Most who are able to come here are trusted implicitly. There is no way to break in that door without the access code and key, and only the upper levels have those."

Kurt cast him a side-long glance, noticing the tension in his jaw. "Was Strollop trusted implicitly?"

Blaine ran a hand through his curls, frowning around the lab. "I didn't know him. My father gave the go-ahead, so he must have trusted him, otherwise he wouldn't be here." He gave a sardonic laugh. "Looks like that was a bad judgment call."

Kurt felt his heart tug in sympathy, and pushed it aside, scowling. He had to curl his hand into a fist to restrain himself from reaching a hand out to lie on the other man's arm. Instead, he turned away, giving Blaine a moment and wondering at the bitter taste in his mouth at doing so.

Finally, Kurt heard Blaine clear his throat, and the curly haired man gestured to the door where the prototypes were located, face once again clear. "Would you care to see the layout?"

Kurt nodded, and Blaine walked down the hallway. There were doors on either sides, with various numbers on each. Third door down from the end of the hallway and to the left, Blaine paused. Not only did Blaine key in his code, and swipe his card, he leaned into the eye directly above the hey-in panel, and his eye was scanned.

Clearance: code green level five, Anderson, Blaine.

Blaine stepped back as he opened the door, letting Kurt enter first. Kurt frowned at him, but asked, "So while he could've stolen a key card, and found out the code by other means, he actually had to have clearance to get into here."

"Correct," Blaine nodded, closing the door behind them. The walls were lined with metal safes, and Blaine walked over to the safe Kurt assumed held the laser scalpel, entering his code.

Kurt stepped up as the door opened, and inside were five shelves, stretching how bar back, Kurt didn't know. On each shelf there were boxes made of—he frowned, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Is that plastic?" Kurt asked in disbelief, giving Blaine an incredulous look.

Blaine smiled, leaning to remove a box. He closed the safe door after retrieving it, and walked over to a table in the middle of the room, placing the see through box on it. "High form of Plexiglas, actually. More durable than plastic, and more eco-friendly."

Kurt shook his head. "But all those security precautions and they're in Plexiglas?"

Blaine shrugged, opening the box without pomp or circumstance. Inside the box, there were boxes within, each small enough to fit a LS. Blaine removed one, and slid out the laser scalpel. He handed it over to Kurt.

Kurt frowned, holding it in his hand. "Light," he said, glancing at Blaine.

He nodded, leaning back against the table. "It wouldn't be as marketable if it were heavy. Most medical professionals want something easily adjustable and that moves fluidly."

Kurt turned his attention back to what he believed in fact was his murder weapon. It was about the diameter of a pencil, and just as long. The description both Blaine and Fabray gave him were spot on. Kurt gripped the handle at the end, and stepped back.

"Would've come up behind him," Kurt muttered, seeing the parking garage of Evans' building in his mind. Kurt walked up a few steps, and kept the laser scalpel in his right hand. He saw it as it had played out in the video and as he could imagine it. "Cool," Kurt said, barely even realizing he was speaking out loud. "Kept the LS in his right hand for simpler access. Used his left to incapacitate Evans. Taller than me, but Evans was around my height, so he had momentum." Kurt brought his left arm up, bent inward so his elbow pointed down, and brought it down quickly, imagining the same thing being done to the back of Evans' neck. "Fell to his knees. Wouldn't be as clean to do it this way. The scalpel could curve forward and end up puncturing his face. Too bloody, and he was told to keep it clean. He takes pride in his work, so he flipped him around for the cleaner kill. Plus, he gets the added bonus of having Evans look up at him and knowing he was going to die without even knowing his killer."

Kurt mimed it, scalpel still in his right hand. He imagined Evans on his knees, and flipped the invisible figure around. Kurt brought up the scalpel, and brought it back down in a smooth arc, right where he imagined Evans' temple to be. "Smooth, easy, clean." Kurt said, stepping back again and placing the scalpel on the table. "Kept the weapon. Went through too much work not to. Placed it somewhere on his body. Twelve steps and he was out the door of the parking garage. Security was deactivated. He was in, and out onto the busy streets. Kept the weapon," Kurt repeated, frowning. "To use again?"

Kurt shook his head and turned back, coming back to himself. He saw Blaine standing there, watching him. Kurt paused, frowning. "What?"

Blaine shook his head, turning back around and placing the scalpel in the box it came in and returning that to the Plexiglas. "If it was that cool, that calm and collected for him," he said finally, lifting the box to return it to the safe. "Was it the same when he was doing it to Santana?"

Kurt felt shock ripple through him, and he blinked. "Shit, Blaine, I'm sorry, I didn't even—"

"No," Blaine interrupted, closing the safe and turning to face him. He folded his arms and leaned back against the safe. "Don't apologize. It's good that you can do that. That you can understand him, how he is and how he thought. I don't want to be able to do that," he added, giving Kurt a benign smile. "But it's a good thing that you can understand it."

"The better I understand him, the better I can find him," Kurt said softly, still improvising the thoughts of the murder that had killed Lopez in front of Blaine.

"I believe you," Blaine said simply. "I don't know why, considering I barely know you, but I do. And for some reason I believe you will find him, and you won't stop until you do."

"I will," Kurt promised. He would because he was a cop, because it was wrong to play god with people's lives, because murder was an insult to him. He would to put the minds of the grieving at ease. And now he would because he had made a promise.

"I believe you," Blaine said again. He gave a small, amused smile, tilting his head. "You called me Blaine without being urged into it."

Kurt rolled his eyes, the tension easing from his shoulders. Blaine laughed, and reached out a hand to pull Kurt forward. "Come on," he said, smiling. "Let's go find Wes and David for supper. Emma informed me you'd be eating with us."

Kurt scowled. "Not by choice."

"Emma kind of dictates everybody. You'll get used to that." Before Kurt could consider that statement further, Blaine continued. "Besides; though that other guy earlier may have gotten off worse in the injury department, you still have your own." He nodded to Kurt's leg. "You're limping, Detective Sergeant."

Kurt growled as Blaine led him out of the lab, laughing at the obscenities spilling from behind Kurt's clenched teeth.

*.*

Blaine frowned as he stepped back through his main office, and didn't see hide or hair of either Wes or David. He opened his mouth, about to ask Emma if she knew where they went when she beat him to the punch, not even lifting her eyes away from her unit. "They left a few minutes after you went down to the labs, David sends his apologies, but from what I could see of Wes, he looked quite distraught."

His frown deepened, worry tingeing his expression. Blaine knew David would take care of Wes, but Blaine still had to fight off the instinct to wring every last detail from Emma. Instead, he gave a distracted nod, and ushered Kurt into his office.

He shook it off, turning back to face the other man when they were in his office, and saw Emma had already set the small table. She had removed the two other plates, he saw.

"You're well prepared," Kurt remarked, nodding to the table.

Blaine gave a sheepish smile, shrugging. "Emma put it in here; I work late sometimes and can't always make it out for a meal. She insists that if I stay in the office to eat it won't be at my desk." Blaine knew his voice was affectionate. "As I said before, Emma dictates everything. You just shut up and listen."

Kurt's eyebrows rose as he glanced back at the office where Emma was sitting. He looked back at Blaine with amusement in his eyes that Blaine was pleased to see. "Are you sure you're the boss here?"

"Oh, no," Blaine said, pulling Kurt's chair out for him, and ignoring the droll look aimed his way by the other man at the action. "That's all Emma. Anderson Enterprises would be nothing without her. Nothing would get done. She's a God send. She helped my uncle and father create this business, and it's only her that's kept it afloat." Blaine cut off suddenly when he realized he was babbling, and gave a small glance towards his palm 'link.

"I'd appreciate it if you called them," Kurt said off handedly, not even looking at Blaine who gave him a surprised look. "I may need to speak to either of them later, and don't really want to waste a trip down there if neither are fit to speak."

Blaine smothered a grin, and tilted his head in acknowledgement, relieved and amused at Kurt's round-about way of telling Blaine he wouldn't mind if he checked up on them. "As you wish," he said, reaching over for his 'link.

He entered David's information as Kurt sat across from him, politely looking away, even as Blaine knew he'd hear every word. David picked up after the fourth ring, looking worried and frazzled.

Blaine frowned, amusement draining away. "David," he said, looking in the background and hoping to see Wes. "Is everything all right?"

"Shit," David ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah. No. Sorry we didn't stay."

"Don't mention it, how's Wes? Emma said he looked upset."

David glanced behind him, "Yeah, that about covers it. Listen; he's still, ah, upset, and I don't want to leave him alone."

Blaine sat back, concerned for both his friends and curious about what would have made them so unhappy. "That's fine. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Yeah, actually," David blew out a long breath. "I need to talk to you. Not tonight," he hurried on to say, glancing behind him again. "But tomorrow okay?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's fine," Blaine said, confused.

"Thanks, Blaine." Without another word, he hung up, leaving Blaine to stare at his 'link for a moment. He shook his head, setting it back down on his desk and returned to the table.

Kurt narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. "Everything okay?"

"Ah," Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, frowning at the table. He shook his head and sat back down. He gave Kurt a distracted smile. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kurt hummed noncommittally, but changed the topic. He nodded to the plates on the table. "So what am I being forced to eat against my will? Cow eyeballs? Jelly fish tentacles? Squirrel intestine?"

Blaine laughed, eyes crinkling even as his nose did and he lifted the lids off the plates. "Nothing quite so exotic, I'm afraid. Maybe next time." He ignored the suspicious look Kurt shot him and continued. "You're going to be sadly disappointed. Seems like all we have here is some boring mushroom and chicken Alfredo with asparagus." He smiled at Kurt. "Sorry."

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, casting Blaine a vaguely amused glance as he portioned the meal. "I'll manage somehow."

Blaine smiled, standing to remove the serving plates and bringing back a bottle that had Kurt narrowing his eyes. Blaine twisted his lips, holding the bottle aloft as he tilted his head. "Wine?"

"Technically I'm still on duty," Kurt replied dryly, glancing at Blaine's office door. "I shouldn't even be up here except for the fact that I'm slightly frightened of your assistant's actions if I tried to leave."

Blaine left the bottle on the table, instead bringing back two glasses of water. He sat back down, unfolding his napkin. "Officers of the law aren't permitted to eat, now?"

"I'd rather not," Kurt said, waiting until Blaine had lifted his own fork to do the same. He twirled some of the creamy noodles around his fork. "Especially when on a deadline. But as I said before—the woman outside isn't someone I'm willing to take the chance with, especially not when she's been so accommodating so far."

"Deadline?" Blaine asked after he had finished a bite and wiped his handkerchief across his mouth, reaching for his glass of water with a frown on his face.

Kurt restrained his own frown, reminding himself to rein it in and not get comfortable. He was wary of Pillsbury—didn't mean he had to get chummy with the man across from him. Kurt blanked his expression, waving a hand. "Nothing. Forget about it."

Blaine's frown remained but he said nothing, instead choosing to smoothly change the topic, disliking the way Kurt had closed off but instead deciding to choose his battles for now. "Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?" he asked instead.

Kurt nodded once. "Yes, I will be, as will my aide. Mrs. Pierce is aware. We won't be causing any trouble."

"It's not an issue; simply a cause for curiosity. I doubt Brittany has an issue with it, either. If she did she would've said something."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "To you or me?"

Blaine smiled, taking another drink of his water. "To anyone who would've listened. Your aide?"

"Yes," was all Kurt said. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, and the situation was a bit too eerie for his liking. He was sitting—eating dinner no less—with a man who was still a suspect. Granted, Kurt admitted, he was as close to the bottom of the list as Brittany thanks to Shelby's profile, but still.

What made him most uncertain, though, was the fact that Kurt really couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to get back to work, desperately, but he felt no desire to leave because Anderson was involved in the case.

And that, Kurt thought, frowning as he lifted his napkin to wipe at his mouth, could get dangerous and become quite a problem.

*.*

He paced quickly, yet quietly, glancing at the closed door as he did so as to not disturb the person in the other room. He was supposed to be sleeping but he felt nervous, jittery and out of sorts. Nothing was going as it should, damn it. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He paused, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he relaxed his clenched fingers. Relax, he told himself. Relax before someone hears and comes to check. Get a hold of yourself.

His nerves were going haywire, and as long as he stood there, trying desperately to reign himself in, nothing could ease his mind.

It was going on seventy-two hours since the first murder, and almost thirty one since the second. He felt his hands jerk even as he thought about it. What was taking so long? Why wasn't it working?

He uttered a quiet and frustrated growl, sitting on the edge of the bed. Things weren't falling into place. And more and more mistakes were coming up. He glared at his unit on the other side of the room, thinking about the files and transmissions he had witnessed from both Hummel's and Blaine's computers. Strollop had left behind quite the mess, instead of the clean break he'd been assured of. And the man couldn't even answer his calls.

He bit his lip, assuring himself it'd be fine in the end. He'd deal with it, and things would go right back to the way they were meant to. He should've known better than to have someone else handle the messy business. But his stomach still knotted at the one other time he had done anything else even close to the murders. He still should've done it. At least then he'd known for sure there'd be no mistakes.

He scowled when a knock sounded at the door. "Everything okay in there?" a voice came from the other side.

He rolled his eyes, but tried to make his voice as light as possible, strained and upset. "Fine. Everything's fine."

It was quiet for a moment. "Do you want me to come in?"

He felt his lips curl in irritation. But when he spoke, his voice was thankful, warm even though it was shaking. "No—no, I think—I think I want to be alone right now. Okay?"

"Of course."

The footsteps walked away, and he lay back, rolling his tense shoulders, a frown between his brows. He'd take care of it himself from here on, he decided. He'd pay Strollop what was owed to him, and he'd do the rest.

At least then he'd know his plan was back on track and everything executed perfectly.

*.*

Kurt frowned, sitting in his vehicle in front of Anderson Enterprises, not even bothering to start it. Just sitting.

He'd never been to a more bizarre dinner in his life. Bizarre, but not entirely unpleasant. The rest of the meal was spent with light conversation, things you would talk about with an acquaintance you would run into in a coffee shop. Nothing heavy handed or related to murders in any way, shape or form. It was an odd occurrence for Kurt, but one he wouldn't mind repeating, especially with such pleasant company.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he shook his head to clear it with a scowl. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel absent-mindedly. Maybe Sylvester was right. Maybe he should take a step back from this entire Anderson deal. It wasn't a great idea to compromise himself, even if it's just by having friendly thoughts for a suspect.

It tended not to look so awesome on paperwork.

He could give the next follow ups to Puck, as long as they weren't especially significant to the case. And he needed to go to Ohio, anyway. Maybe he could clear his head from Anderson then.

He let out a bitter laugh at the thought, his stomach tightening. He'd much rather stay and put up with Anderson than return to Lima.

His dash beeped with an incoming message. He answered when he saw his partner's name. Puck's face filled the screen, lines etched into a deep from on his face. His eyes were concerned when they looked at Kurt. He braced himself in response.

"Hey. Anything new?"

"Not on Evans, or even Strollop, no. But I figured there was something important that you should know. You still at Anderson Enterprises?"

Kurt's stomach filled with lead. "Yes. What do you have?"

With a deep breath, Puck told him.

Blaine was surprised, but not upset, when Kurt came back into his office barely twenty minutes after he left. However, the pleased feeling evaporated into worry at the flat and vaguely cool look the Detective Sergeant was aiming at him.

Blaine had to admit he much preferred the amused resignation Kurt had sported for the entirety of their dinner.

"Anderson," Kurt stated, and Blaine took note of the return of his last name. "You are aware that withholding information that could pertain to a case is considered obstruction of justice?"

Blaine let a frown play at his lips, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his lap. He had to tilt his head back to look at Kurt, but Blaine had no issue in doing so. He was well-versed in body language, and figured Kurt would be less defensive if Blaine wasn't in the position of power.

"Kurt—Detective Sergeant," he amended at the raise of Kurt's eyebrow. "You have me at a loss. I have no clue what you're talking about."

"My partner just received news of a transmission between you and Will Schuester from earlier today. A very interesting transmission, dealing with you coming right out and saying that his position in this company would be terminated."

"Have you been monitoring me, Detective Sergeant?" Blaine asked coolly.

Just as coolly, Kurt replied, "I believe you gave me permission to use whatever resources necessary in order to solve this case."

"Yes. In order to help find the murderer. I don't see what this has to do with a personal transmission between myself and my former partner."

"You hadn't mentioned that you were going to be terminating his post."

Blaine spread his hands. "I wasn't aware that it was necessary for the case."

"Any information is necessary, when the murder weapon was removed from your facility by a high-ranking member who has access to said facility."

"You can't be serious." Blaine stared at him. "You think—Will? Are you crazy?"

"How did he receive the news?"

"He was—he was upset, of course." Blaine stood finally, flustered. He put his hands in his pockets. "I'd asked him to come in today, but we've all been on edge since Santana. He was suspicious and could probably tell that something was off. He pushed me until I told him, reluctantly. He was angry, shocked, hurt. I tried to explain, but he ended the call before I could."

Kurt felt something within him relax slightly at the reply. Anderson had described the transmission exactly how Kurt had seen it when he sat in his vehicle. "Why would you want to remove your father's partner from this position?" He asked much more calmly than before.

Blaine ran a hand over his hair, feeling some of the curls spring loose after a long day. His eyes ached, and his limbs suddenly felt very heavy with exhaustion. He sat on his desk, in front of Kurt with his hands lying limply between his knees. He stared at them until his hands didn't look like they belonged to him anymore.

"My father, he and Will had a different game plan for the company. They always had, and even growing up I knew when I took over, I wouldn't run it the same way. I love Will, he's like family. I'm grateful that he was able to get me on my feet with this, but in the past couple months, he's been urging me to take over his and my father's reign." Blaine sighed, weary. "I don't—I've never wanted to be like them. They see the big picture and overlook the little things. The only time they see them or is if they're pawns. I don't work like that. I can't have Will standing at my shoulder, supposedly, and constantly second guess me, or question me in front of our other partners."

He was silent a moment, thinking of the expression in Will's eyes when Blaine told him the news. Blaine had a feeling he'd be seeing the betrayal in his make-shift Uncle's eyes for a long time to come. "I don't even know the number of people who work for Anderson Enterprises," he continued. "But they all have lives, families. If Anderson Enterprises goes under, they'll all be out of work, all across the world. Hell, if Anderson Enterprises goes under the entire economy could be fucked.

"My father spent his entire life building himself an empire to stand on in front of the world. Should that empire fall because of disagreements between his son and best-friend, I'm not entirely sure what would happen." He looked up finally. Kurt wasn't looking at him with flat, emotionless eyes anymore, thankfully. His gaze was thoughtful, and Blaine became helpless. "I still don't understand how this has any bearing on the case. Will couldn't ever kill anyone. He can't even kill a spider."

"Maybe not," Kurt agreed carefully. "But he could hire someone, couldn't he?"

Blaine's instant reaction was denial. Fully fledged, blazing denial and righteous indignation on behalf of Will. But Kurt's gaze stayed calm, and Blaine resolutely squashed that little niggle of doubt inside of him.

"Why, though? Why would he murder Santana? I don't understand. It just doesn't make any sense."

Kurt's hand twitched. Blaine saw it, though Kurt acted indifferent. For a fleeting moment, it looked as if he were about to reach out for one of Blaine's fisted hands.

"That's why you have to let me do my job," Kurt stated. His eyes stayed even on Blaine's, all business and cop once more.

"Blaine, you have to let me do my job."

Blaine shut his tired eyes and let his head drop forward for a long time. There was only silence in the room. Even concentrating as hard as he was, he could only barely hear Kurt's even breath.

He inhaled deeply. Without lifting his head, Blaine nodded slowly.

"Okay."


End file.
